


All Downhill from Here

by andromeda_tambourine



Series: Like Clockwork [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Apocalypse, Croatoans, Dark Comedy, F/M, M/M, Violence, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:57:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 103,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2610926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andromeda_tambourine/pseuds/andromeda_tambourine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has to end somehow. It doesn't matter if Sam and Dean Winchester aren't part of the equation this time around. At least, those were the cards they were dealt.</p><p>The boys grew up strangers under the same roof. Sam's a junior associate working for the biggest dick in San Francisco. Dean's a mechanic following in his alcoholic father's footsteps. Chuck Shurley is a bestselling author and rival of Stephen King. Life wavers from pleasantly mundane to miserable and hungover for each of them until they realize April 23, 2010, is the last day their cell phones work, the last day they can buy Wendy's Baconators, and the last day anything will be any semblance of normal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you like violence! Enjoy!

December 31, 2014 – Marietta, GA

  
“Rednecks,” Marshall almost said out loud. He was eyeing three young men, their stained parkas hanging loosely off their torsos. One of them dropped a jar of pickles, the tiny brownish-green logs rolling across the smooth convenience store floor like dismembered toes. The men laughed, ignoring the old man’s disapproving stares.

  
Marshall regretted letting them in. They seemed desperate, thin and cold. It snowed early this year, probably in mid-October. It had been snowing earlier and earlier every year, and more people were dying from exposure than before. Marshall couldn’t imagine what it was like any further north if Georgia was this bad. His ex-wife was probably shivering in the house in South Carolina that she took from him in the divorce.

  
That was one bit of solace for poor old Marshall since the apocalypse. At least Charlene was probably dead.

  
“Hey, is someone going to clean that up?” a man’s voice said. Marshall didn’t bother to look up from the cash register. The register obviously hadn’t worked since the electricity went out, but that was still his standing spot.

  
He swiveled himself around to grab the mop that was yellowed and brown from god knows what. He would have to get a new one sooner or later, but supplies were scarce. It wasn’t like mops were top priority anyway. More like a luxury.

Marshall came up behind the men. One of them was threatening to squish a fallen pickle with his ratty hiking boot.

  
“Don’t go wastin’ it,” Marshall murmured. It was long-since expired, but pickles could probably last decades without making you sick. He still had an ounce of dignity about him and wouldn’t eat it himself, but at least these half-starved young men should reap the benefits of their carelessness.

  
The boot hit the ground with an organic squish anyway. Marshall opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced when one of the other men unzipped his parka to reveal a hunting rifle.

  
They glared at the old man. The smallest of the three spat something out of his mouth. At first Marshall thought it was a piece of gum, but then again, that would’ve been too normal in these bizarre times. It hit the floor with a miniscule clink. No, it wasn’t gum. It was a tooth. The boy was falling apart.

  
Some of them lose a few teeth, others their finger nails or hair, but either way they all end up the same. This was just Stage 1, and he seemed to be sinking rapidly into Stage 2.  
Uncontrollable aggression.

Loss of self.

  
The only word Marshall could manage at this point was “fuck”. He should have checked to see if they were injured. He should have looked at their damn eyes to see if they were blood shot, or if blood was smeared on their mouths.

  
Marshall wasn’t a slight man, he was on the tall side of average, but with a frame similar to your average street bicycle from poor nutrition, he often struggled carrying the water in from the creek about a mile away. His knee sometimes gave out without warning, especially in this weather. Old war injury.

  
A second man slammed his hand on one of the empty store shelves. The metal indented slightly. They all laughed. Since people in their condition generally didn’t show any joy, this laugh was something else. Like a hyena’s, complete with the glimmer of saliva dripping from their mouths.

  
Marshall wrung his hands around the handle of the mop. He figured, if worst came to worst, he’d shove the disgusting, bacteria filled mop into their faces and hope to kill them slowly by way of disease. Biological warfare. They’d probably rip his throat out before even the first sniffle, but at least he’d get his revenge from beyond the grave.

  
“Please leave,” he gave one attempt at civility. His attempts were ignored as the men continued to take whatever they could get their hands on, smashing dusty cardboard displays to the ground, watching glass and liquid from the other pickle jars spray up like sparks from firecrackers.

  
Marshall backed away. He hated being feeble, but living on a diet of pickles and the occasional squirrel had rendered his muscles weak.

  
He had taken but three steps backwards before he realized he was stepping on someone’s toes. An unworldly chill climbed up his spine as he turned slowly, ignoring the chaos in what used to be the frozen food section. There stood a tall man, also young, but not nearly as thin and wane. He wore a dark navy suit, contrasting the others in their parkas and ill-fitting cargo pants. He smiled down at Marshall, and Marshall realized he hadn’t seen anyone wearing a suit in years.

  
The man snapped his fingers.

  
Marshall could hear a breath of horror and shock that lasted for the briefest of seconds. Suddenly, the back of his work uniform felt wet and warm. Behind him, he heard two voices shrieking like howler monkeys. Yet the man before him did not break eye contact with Marshall, nor could Marshall break eye contact with him.

  
The shrieks soon turned into sobs when the man sighed. “They really sound pathetic when they cry.” Then there was silence.

  
Marshall slowly turned to where the young men were. Or had been. In their place was a splatter of blood and bits of body that stretched from the top of the door of the refrigerator case clear to the other side of the convenience store. Where the first offending pickle jar had been, there was now a big toe. Marshall swallowed.

  
“Much better,” the man said with a smile. “Now, like I said, is someone going to clean that up?”

  
Marshall nodded. He dipped the mop into the murky water bucket. When the gray cloth hit the floor, the crimson swirled.

  
It took him about three hours to clear out all the blood. Within the first twenty minutes, the mop had gotten so saturated with red, he had to use the last few rolls of toilet paper he’d stored in the back. When he ran out of those, he moved on to white dress shirts he found stocked in the backroom. All the while, the man, his suit still pristine, simply watched with a slightly amused expression on his face, much like the way someone might watch a desperate street performer juggle bowling pins.

  
Marshall placed the last white shirt in the trashcan. He then went to the sink in the bathroom and meticulously washed his hands in the water he’d gotten from the creek that morning. The blood wouldn’t come out from under his fingernails. He’d worry about that later. Turning to the man, he gulped and said, “I’m finished.”

  
“Good,” the man replied and walked toward the exit. He pushed the door open and left.

  
Marshall stood still for a moment, nauseous and exhausted. Suddenly, his legs seemed to take on a mind of their own and he found himself sprinting to the door. He nearly tripped over the padlock and chain he’d had through the door handles to keep unwanted visitors out as he shouted, “Wait!”

  
The man was already halfway into the darkness of the cold forest, the candlelight from the store desperately trying to reach him. Though he was surrounded by trees, the man seemed to tower over everything around him. It wasn’t physically possible, but Marshall would tell anyone who would listen later on that the man was taller than the dozens of weeping willows around him.

The man turned, the same smile etched on his face.

  
Marshall caught up with him, ignoring the lack of light around him, knowing he was more exposed and vulnerable than he’d ever been since it all happened. He stood before the man, transfixed on his face, finding himself unable to move.

  
“Well, Marshall,” the man said, his voice dry yet smooth. “What are we going to do with you?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapters will go up every Sunday and Wednesday until New Year's Day.

April 23, 2010 – San Francisco, CA

The coffee stain was, as the very word suggests, stained on his slacks forever.

“Shit,” Sam hissed, feebly rubbing the coffee even deeper into the fabric with a Dunkin Donuts napkin he found in the glove compartment.

Navy blue suit. Brown stain right on his crotch. The coffee wasn’t even that good.

He stepped out of the car and assessed the damage in the morning light. It looked as bad as it had felt when a good gulp-full of scalding hot joe had nearly taken away his ability to have children. He huffed and looked up at the sun peaking over the building in front of him. Carefully avoiding the Styrofoam cup resting innocently in the cup holder, he reached back in the car and pulled his briefcase off the passenger seat. Though there was no one in the parking lot just yet, he still walked away with the black polyester briefcase blocking the stain from view.

Day 178. He mentally noted as he hovered his keycard over the panel in the front of the building.

Day 178, 7:23 AM. Not even the first one in the office, most like.

He took the stairs to the fifth floor to delay the inevitable. He took the stairs since Day 8. A week was all he needed to know he was doing the devil’s work.

His cubicle was that beige that only seems to exist in office buildings, the walls textured so employees could put thumb tacks in to hang up schedules and to-do lists and painfully neutral photos of their kids in their baseball uniforms. Sam had had a picture of Jess in a sundress that he’d taken when they went on spring break to Cancun. Nothing scandalous. Just her smiling and squinting in the sun. It took his boss all of six hours to make him feel uncomfortable enough to take it down.

“Winchester!” It was that second-year associate Nate. His vocal tone was in a permanent state of frat boy. Sam heard a round of snickers coming from behind cubicle walls.

Nate gave him an open-palmed, overly aggressive slap on his right shoulder. “You’re late again. Boss is gonna ream you.”

Sam tried to hide his disgust. No one would say “ream” outside an 80s teen flick.

“You see the game last night?” Nate continued. He rested one ass cheek on a stack of folders on Sam’s desk. The boss must be within earshot, otherwise Nate wouldn’t give him the time of day.

It took all of Sam’s willpower not to bite the inside of his cheek to the point of bleeding. “Which game?” he asked.

Nate’s eyes went dark, caught in his obvious attempt to domineer over Sam. Admittedly, Sam was an easy target for these more experienced associates. He was tall, relatively good looking, and smart, which made him a threat on paper. But they knew Sam’s greatest weakness from the moment he shook their hands on Day 1.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see Dick Roman leaning against the door frame of his office, that closed-mouthed smirk permanently etched on his overly taught face. Dick was the type of man who woke up every morning, stared at himself in the mirror, and congratulated his reflection for being the pinnacle of perfection. In this law firm, he wasn’t just created in god’s image. No, he was god.  And god loved to watch his favorite creations nip and cackle at the lower life forms.

“7:35, Winchester,” Dick’s voice rang out across the office. “Thought I said 7:30, all-hands-on-deck in my memo last night.”

Sam quickly glanced at his watch. It still said 7:23. Broken. Fucking knock-off brand.

“Dick, I’m,” he gulped as the boss approached his desk. “I’m sorry. I… I have no excuse.” He sat down at his desk as Nate slinked away, back into the shadows.

Dick ignored him. “Remind me again. How many times have you been late since you started here?”

Sam stared straight ahead and Dick loomed over the empty space between the walls of his cubicle.

“Two,” Sam replied without having to be reminded. “The first time was because there was an earthquake which…”

Dick turned around to face the rest of the office, which had silently swiveled their chairs around to observe the on-coming reprimanding. Dick addressed the audience, “Five minutes late today. Fifteen minutes late last time. That’s 20 minutes total. Remind me, Katz, what do we charge our clients an hour?”

The thin woman with sharp cheekbones and ravenous eyes in the cubicle adjacent from Sam’s stood up from her desk. “$1000 for desk work, $2000 for face-to-face, Dick.” She immediately sat down, not waiting for approval.

Dick barely acknowledged her. “Simple arithmetic says 20 minutes of time lost equals how much in dollars lost, Chen?”

A square-jawed man with a buzz cut stood. “Approximately $333.33 to $500, Dick.” He mirrored the woman and sat without another word.

Dick slowly turned back to Sam. “So that means Winchester should be writing me a check for – oh, let’s lowball it - $333.33? You got your checkbook handy, Winchester?”

The office was like a morgue. Sam could hear a droplet of sweat fall to the floor underneath the rotund paralegal 15 feet away.

Again, Sam fought the urge to rip his own cheek out from the inside with his teeth.

The corners of Dick’s mouth twitched into a smile. He then laughed in a way that made it seem like he wasn’t breathing out, but simply mimicking how a normal human being would react to humor.

A hand fell firmly on Sam’s shoulder. “I’m just messing with you, Winchester.” Dick smirked and lowered his voice. “But seriously, you’re late again, I might start getting concerned.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam gulped, staring into the eyes of a shark.

“You know you should call me Dick,” the man insisted. He then raised his voice a bit, just enough so Nate and a few others could hear. “Everything going OK at home with the missus? You know if things’re getting rocky, you can always come to me.”

Sam said nothing, but clenched his jaw in order to prevent himself from lashing out.

Dick smiled, then glanced down. “You got a little something on your… Oh well, I’m guessing you already know about it.”

Sam spent the rest of the day stabbing at the keyboard with his fingers, trying not to put the letter opener on his desk straight through his own neck.

Without fail, Sam was the last one in the office. Again. At around 6:30, Nate had brought him a stack of folders marked “urgent”, sneered, and slung his suit jacket over his shoulder as he left.

Everyone else was gone by 7. Friday night.

Jess would be just starting her late shift at the hospital. She was in the ER and probably wouldn’t be able to reach her phone until the wee hours of the morning. Sam figured he should call her anyway, leave a message so she’d have something to listen to after all the guts and bodily fluids she’d be looking at for hours. He didn’t know how she could stand it. He nearly fainted at the sight of blood.

Just as he reached for his phone in his briefcase pocket, he heard it vibrate.

“Speak of the devil,” he murmured under his breath.

Then he saw the caller ID.

_Incoming call from Dean._

He frowned and let it ring for a few seconds longer before he hit “Ignore”. Placing the phone down beside his keyboard, he went back to work.

Lawsuit. Copyright infringement. A 16-year-old girl in Boise, Idaho, had put a photo-realistic drawing of the character of a popular book and film franchise on the internet. Now the publishing company for the author was suing her for $2 million. Dick, of course, represented the author.

Sam hated himself as he continued to type the report, summarizing the evidence in favor of the publisher so Dick could go into the courtroom like a sheriff from an old cowboy movie and take down some teenage girl and the struggling website she’d posted the image on.

Sam hated himself for taking the offer over half a year ago. He hated himself for seeing dollar signs and thinking about all those student loans floating out the window of the brand-new house he and Jess would own in a couple years. He hated himself for being so incredibly good at being the bad guy, helping Dick take down kids and old people and other innocents who lost everything while the big guys took money baths.

Sam hated himself to the tune of his phone vibrating for nearly five minutes.

_10 missed calls from Dean._

Sam forgot how much he hated himself for a minute. The only thought that shot into his mind was that something was horribly, horribly wrong.

Dean never called. Well, never sober anyway. In fact, Sam remembered exactly the last time Dean had called him sounding lucid. It was a few hours after he’d told Mom he’d gotten this job. She was all excited for him, telling him how proud she was, promising to buy him a beautiful, fancy leather briefcase to go with his new, fancy job. Sam had insisted she not spend her hard earned money on a briefcase. He’d be fine with something he picked up at Walmart.

Dean called. The second thing out of his mouth was asking for money. The first thing was a mumbled congratulations that was about as real as the brand name on Sam’s watch.

The phone vibrated again. That was eleven calls from Dean.

Sam picked up.

“Hello?” was all he could think of to say, though honestly, there was no other way he knew how to answer the phone.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice sounded distant and static, like he was going through a tunnel. “Thank….for an… you?”

“Dean,” Sam replied, unable to piece together the sentence, “I can’t hear you. Get somewhere with better reception.”

There was nothing save for what sounded like the wind for a while. Then finally, “…get… Mom! It’s Mom! Oh god, Sammy… the world.”

“Hang up and call me back,” Sam ordered, worried at the mention of their mother.

Dean obviously couldn’t hear him. “Shit, can’t we… Cas, you gotta he-… Sam, get… safe. Get some place safe!”

The first real sentence came out.

Sam wanted to ask why. “Get some place safe?” he mouthed to himself. He stood up and walked to the office window. Did Dean hear something about an earthquake on the news? Or wildfires? Was World War III starting?

He glanced down into the parking lot below. The spotlights shone brightly, highlighting his lone Prius five stories below.

“Dean, I…” he started before something caught his eye.

A woman ran out into the middle of the parking lot then stopped about ten feet from Sam’s car. She hunched over, her hands resting on her knees. One of the lights flickered above her. She tossed her head back, almost like she was in the throes of a hearty laugh. Some dark substance erupted from her mouth and disappeared. She bent over again briefly before running across the parking lot and out of sight.

“Sam!” Dean’s voice pierced Sam’s left eardrum. “It’s Mom! She…”

The phone cut out.

Sam continued to stare at the parking lot below. Nothing moved. It was as quiet as it was before.

All attempts to call Dean back failed. His phone didn’t go to voice mail. It went to nothing. Sam tried from his desk phone only to be met with the same, electronic silence.

He tried Mom’s home phone.

Cell phone.

Finally, hands beginning to shake, still at the window facing the parking lot, Sam searched his contacts for Jess. The phone rang once. Then there was nothing.

For the first time since he started working for Roman & Associates, Sam left before his work was done. He grabbed his briefcase, threw his phone in the side pocket, and headed for the door. He didn’t bother waiting for the elevator. The stairs were his usual and much faster anyway.

He emerged from the office building with his heart racing and his eyes focused on his car several yards ahead. The light that had been flickering around the woman was dark now. His car chirped as he remotely unlocked it.

The only thing he could hear was his own footsteps, dress shoes clicking against the recently paved asphalt. He accidentally kicked a rock a few feet and nearly jumped out of his own skin. When he got to the driver’s side, he saw her.

The sky was still slightly illuminated, a dark, purple haze surrounding the buildings on three sides of the parking lot. He could see the outline of a woman coming towards him. She wasn’t moving too quickly or too slowly, but there was something off about her gait. Her arms hung loose at her sides, her head crooked on her shoulders. Sam could hear her breathing from far away.

“Ma’am?” Sam tried, the door to his car open. “Are you OK?”

She didn’t answer, but continued to approach.

As her breathing became even more distinct, Sam jumped in his car. It was raspy, like a smoker who had a wad of phlegm stuck in her throat. She began to quicken her pace towards Sam’s car.

Sam started the engine and the high beams flashed. For the first time, Sam could see her clearly. It was Jennifer Katz from the office. A third year associate. Smart, but cocky, and a kiss-ass at that.

It was Jennifer Katz, yet it was not Jennifer Katz.

Her hair was messy and straggly, like she’d just gotten caught up in a gust of wind. Even from this distance, Sam could see dark circles under her eyes, and her already picot skin looking gray. But the biggest indicator that this was a very different Jennifer Katz than what he was used to was the smear of blood around her mouth.

“Jennifer!” Sam shouted, though his voice wasn’t as strong as he’d hoped. “You need help. Let me get you to a hospital.”

He had every intention of physically helping, but his hands wouldn’t allow it. They were white-knuckling the steering wheel.

Jennifer stopped and cocked her head to the other side, like a dog responding to the word “treat”. She stared at Sam, unblinking.

There was a dull slam against metal coming from behind him.  Sam whipped around in the driver’s seat to see five or six people throwing themselves against the back window of his car. The window was smeared with some opaque liquid.

“Hey!” he yelled. “What are you…?”

A hand slapped the passenger’s side window. It was Jennifer Katz’s. Her face was soon pressed against the glass, her jaw moving up and down as if she was trying to chew through.

“Get off!” was the only thing Sam could think of yelling.

Out of the corner of his eye, in the rear view mirror, he saw one of the other attackers raise something above his head. Sam was distracted by Jennifer Katz throwing her body on the hood of his car. Before long, the object came hurling at the car and crashing through the window.

Sam didn’t wait to find out what it was. Sam shifted the car to drive and slammed on the gas. The Prius, with its try-as-it-might accelerator, zipped forward, tossing Jennifer Katz off the hood and rolling on the pavement.

The car flew out of the parking lot, and turned right down the empty street.


	3. Chapter 3

January 1, 2015 – Lawrence, KS

The locusts were at it today, whining.

They were probably a few miles away, but it sounded like thousands of screaming voices piercing right into whatever eardrums the swarm could find. They came around the Great Plains once every four years to decimate the crops. A big black cloud of constantly moving parts that had no sense of reason, no other purpose than to eat. One mouth that moved haphazardly until it was full and disappeared. Kids would find little dried out exoskeletons, crispy on the front porch before they blew away. They’d find a handful a year, if that, barely a fraction of the whole swarm.

So what happened to the others?

Did they immediately decay once their tiny little insect nervous systems shut down? Did they fly off into the gulf, collapse into the water to become fish food? Was there a massive locust graveyard tucked in some secluded corner of the country where no man could visit?

It was the beginning of January, if he’d kept track of the days correctly, yet the locusts from the summer were still around. Still alive. It was below freezing but those damn things wouldn’t die.

Dean was smacked out of his own thoughts. More accurately, his own brother’s fist smacked him out of his thoughts and broke his nose.

Except it wasn’t his brother controlling those fingers that were now wrapped around his throat. It wasn’t his brother kneeling over him, the knees of his blindingly white suit getting stained with dirt. It wasn’t his brother smiling down at him.

Dean’s nose was bloody. He could feel it dripping and taste the iron mixed with sweat. He wanted to speak, but couldn’t. His vocal cords made a feeble attempt to vibrate against the grip around his neck, but with nearly no air coming out of his lungs, he only managed to choke out a gurgle.

That was it. That last, short gasp he made as the fist came rushing towards his nose was probably the last full breath he’d ever take. He could feel his eyes bulging, blood trapped in his face as circulation to his head went from pumping to oozing to barely trickling. He felt hot and cold at the same time. He wished his neck would snap before the suffocation part started.

The face looking down at him continued to smile, thin lipped and nothing happening in the eyes. Dean remembered hearing about how you could always tell if someone was insincere if they smiled and there were no lines around the corners of their eyes. His brother’s skin was perfectly smooth.

There was a humming in his ears. The locusts sure couldn’t quit, couldn’t give him one last bit of silence on earth. The pitch of the humming seemed to get higher as Dean could feel blood pouring from his ears. He instinctively tried to open his mouth to relieve the pressure, but two thumbs were holding tight beneath his jaw and he couldn’t move.

His vision blurred. Tears. Not of sorrow. Just the body’s natural reaction to stress and impending heart failure. Death was near. He could hear whispers against the humming.

Dean relaxed. His pulse slowed then stopped. The hands remained around his neck for another minute before letting go, gently.

Dean was dead.

This wasn’t the first time he’d died.

And it wouldn’t be the last.

******

April 23, 2010 – Los Angeles, CA

Tina. No. Tiffany. Nope. Tatiana. No no no.

The embarrassment of forgetting someone’s name is generally immeasurable. Look at the person in the eyes and within moments, the forgetful party would hesitate as sounds trickled out of their mouth, not forming words but rather desperate grasps at syllables that would hopefully match. But people always know. First there would be a bit of annoyance, perhaps even anger, but ultimately it all lead to excruciating disappointment.

The woman standing in front of Chuck had that very look on her face, her arms barely folding over her silicon chest. Her brown eyes bore a deep hole into Chuck’s soul. The fact that he was naked save for the $5000 Egyptian cotton sheets draped below his waist as he sit up in bed didn’t make it any easier. He wasn’t normally this callous. He genuinely did have fun with this type of gorgeous specimen of the feminine kind, but his mind was elsewhere.

“There’s a car coming to pick you up,” he mumbled quickly.

“Thanks, _Carver_.” She obviously over-emphasized his nom de plume just to see if he’d reply with her name.

Chuck gulped. “Yeah, thanks… thanks again, T-”

“Melissa,” she snapped before he could embarrass himself even further. “I’ll see myself out.”

She exited the bedroom. Chuck could hear the echo of heels clicking on the marble floors as she left the 7404 square foot house.

Chuck breathed a sigh of relief as he got up from the bed and slipped into his warm-up pants. It was already 7:30 in the evening, and after a night of E-induced marathon sex, a morning of resting his head on the silicon pillows Melissa got for her 18th birthday, and an afternoon of slightly sober sex, he just wanted to get a cup of coffee.

Throwing his arms up in a big yawn, Chuck made the journey to the kitchen.

The halls of his mansion were lined with photos of him with various celebrities and notable people. His favorite was the one of him with Stephen King. Chuck was standing next to the master of horror, holding a copy of _Supernatural: Bloody Mary_ with one arm around King’s shoulder. They were both smiling big, but Chuck’s was by far the bigger smile. The photo was taken the day he found out _Bloody Mary_ had sold more copies than any single book King had ever published. Stephen King hated his guts.

To be more precise, he hated Carver Edlund’s guts. His agent had advised him to use a pen name from the moment he handed in his first manuscript. Nobody who’s anybody survives in the business with a name like Chuck Shurley. His full name wasn’t even Charles. His parents just skipped that part and went straight to putting a nickname on the birth certificate.

Now Carver Edlund was the hottest selling novelist since J.K. Rowling. With ten novels published, four movies already made and a fifth in production, and a video game that got blamed for school shootings, the _Supernatural_ series made Carver Edlund a household name. And it made Chuck filthy stinking rich.

His agent had told him to make sure he owned all the rights to anything related to the _Supernatural_ brand. If someone grafittied one of the two main characters’ faces on the side of an abandoned building in Bangkok, he could sue the whole country of Thailand if he wanted to.

Chuck sighed as he tossed the used coffee filter he’d neglected to clean out the day before into the trash. Ten books over the course of ten years. That’s it. Ten. And he was done. Sure, he had more money than god, and he could retire and live the life, cruising in his Italian cars with beautiful women who were only there because he had a bottomless bank account. He had no problems with that.

But he was worried. The question he hated the most in interviews was always, “Where do you get your inspiration from?” Not because he’d heard it some six thousand times a year, but because he could never give a straight answer. He would usually bullshit something about his relationship with his brother, how the older sibling had supported him, believed in him until he died back in 1999 of cancer. That was, of course, mostly fabricated. His brother was a bully and a drug addict. The man OD’ed and choked on his own vomit. What an inspirational way to go.

No, Chuck didn’t have any inspiration. In fact, he wasn’t that creative a person. Two years ago he went to the Great Wall of China after doing a promotional tour there for the second _Supernatural_ movie. When an interviewer asked what he thought of the Wall, he replied, “It was great.”

Chuck didn’t need inspiration to write his novels. He saw them played out in intricate and graphic detail when he slept.

These weren’t dreams. He’d dreamed before. Naked in front of the school principal. Teeth falling out. Flying only if he held his breath. All that. What he saw and what prompted him to write was something that was as clear and vivid as if he were watching it on a movie screen.

He saw two brothers. He saw monsters. He saw heads flying, people getting their innards sucked out, ghosts drowning little old ladies, demons possessing children.

He saw angels.

He saw the devil.

At first he thought he was schizophrenic. They were so real, so detailed. He could tell you exactly how many teeth were on the zipper of one of the brothers’ jackets.

But he knew they weren’t real. Even as he saw them, his fairly level-headed, logical mind knew what he was seeing was frightening, but absolutely preposterous.

It wasn’t until he happened upon a literary agent in a bar, rambled drunkenly about what he’d seen, did he think to put these visions down on paper.

The first book took him nearly a year. He sat in front of his four-year-old laptop, whiskey off to the side, and wrote off and on in the evenings after work as assistant manager at Blockbuster.  

After he signed with his agent, things changed. His agent handed the first check over to him with a smile. $10,047.39. Chuck was flabbergasted. That was more money than he’d ever had in his bank account by about 20-fold. And that was only scratching the surface. After a month, the checks kept coming in, bigger and bigger each time. Chuck left Blockbuster with a skip in his step and a wave of his middle finger.

That was ten years ago. Twelve years since the visions came on the regular.

Now. Nothing.

His last vision had the younger brother possessed by Lucifer. The older brother, with his wheelchair-bound guide and trench coat-wearing angel, was at a loss. Kill Lucifer, kill his brother. Let Lucifer live, destroy the world. It was epic. Biblical. Violent. Sexy. Edgy. The Christian right was going to have a fit and Chuck was going to sell a million copies in the first month after publishing Book 11.

A week went by. Peaceful, dreamless nights.

Fine. Maybe he was stressed out about Tom Cruise dinging his Ferrari.

A month went by.

OK. It wasn’t stress. Could be diet. He’d gone paleo so maybe all the red meat was clogging the vision pipes that were supposed to be going into his brain.

Two months. Three months. Now he was on month four and the deadline was looming over his head. He had exactly five days to finish the first draft of Book 11 or no more big, fat checks to stuff down into his $5000 custom-made sweatpants pockets.

He tried relying on his own imagination. He stared at his computer screen for exactly seven hours before throwing a chair off his second floor veranda and into the pool below. The twin Russian models sunbathing nude nearby did not appreciate that.

He was empty. He was dry. His mind was a wasteland of sucky ideas and Shamalan-esque plot twist clichés. He was half convinced Stephen King had put a hex on him.

Slate and Donovan Windcaster were done for. Those were the main characters’ names, chosen by his agent because they held more pizzazz than the original names Chuck had envisioned. His agent had mentioned something about teenage girls these days going gaga for the boys with unwieldy, vaguely sort-of-British-or-maybe-Native-American names. Blame Harry Potter for the first part. His agent insisted the Native American thing would be big within a couple of years.

Chuck placed the coffee mug down on the imported Italian marble counter and breathed in deeply. He was done. Finished. He was going to have to drive up to his agent’s in his newly repainted Ferrari, hand him the noose, and ask the man to make sure the knot didn’t slip when he hung himself.

The steaming hot coffee rippled slightly. Chuck vaguely noted the earthquake before returning his thoughts to his self-pity. But then the ground started to rumble a bit more.

A big one. Hm. Maybe it’d swallow him up before he had to break the bad news and ruin his career.

A minute passed and the earthquake continued, gaining momentum. Chuck clutched the edge of the counter as he heard dishes in the cabinets rattling angrily. He watched as the illegally imported and very, very expensive porcelain Ming urn fell off the shelf and crashed in the living room nearby. Remembering the basics of earthquake survival, he ran to the doorway between the kitchen and the hallway leading to his downstairs guest bedroom (or as he privately called it, the Fuck Room). He pressed his hands against the doorframe and watched the picture of him and Stephen King come crashing off the wall, the glass breaking just over Chuck’s smug grin.

“Holy shit!” Chuck screamed to no one. His hands were getting numb from applying so much pressure, and his heart was beating a mile a minute.

He then heard a boom. Fireworks? No, that was ridiculous. Who would set off fireworks in the middle of an earthquake?

A second boom followed, and then a third. There was a high-pitched sound, like a microphone too close to speakers.  The glass in the floor-to-ceiling windows shattered.

Chuck screamed and threw himself down the hallway, as far away from the windows as he could possibly get. He covered his ears with his hands as he pressed his face into the carpet.

The house continued to shake as Chuck heard screamed against that high-pitched sound. Chuck could do nothing but bury his face even deeper into the carpet, hoping that by maybe not looking at the damage, none of it was actually happening.

And then it stopped.

The house was completely still. Nothing else fell, crashed, nor broke.

Chuck waited about thirty seconds for the ringing in his ears to die down before lifting his head. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked around. There was a pile of plaster a few feet away from him. He looked up to see that part of the ceiling had collapsed right by the doorframe he had taken temporary shelter under. Exposed electrical wiring sparked dangerously at about chest height. Chuck sighed in relief that his own cowardice had saved him from electrocution.

He stood up and moved cautiously to the bedroom. He hoped beyond hope that his computer with the partially completed first draft of _Supernatural_ Book 11 wasn’t crushed under a pile of rubble.

Thankfully, it wasn’t. But before Chuck could sigh in relief again, he realized he was not alone in the room.

A blonde woman was standing with her back to him, facing the window to his beautifully landscaped backyard garden. She was in a nightgown, no shoes. She stood stock still.

Chuck himself didn’t move. His heart was still racing from the earthquake, but now he found he couldn’t breathe. His mouth was dry. A minute went by without either of them moving.

“M-ma’am?” Chuck managed. “How did you… I mean, how did you get in here?”

She turned slowly. She looked to be in about her mid-50s. No makeup, no bra, like she was just about ready for bed. She had a look of joy on her face, her eyes wide and bright, her mouth curled up in a smile. Her face was kind with crow’s feet around her eyes that led Chuck to believe she laughed a lot.

Chuck relaxed a bit. “Did you come in here during the earthquake or… whatever that was? Are you hurt?”

He approached her warily, knowing that it was highly unusual for a woman in her nightgown and no shoes to simply wander into a gated mansion during a super quake.

Her smile grew larger and she took a few steps toward him until she was close enough to touch him. She lifted both her hands and cupped Chuck’s cheeks tenderly.

Chuck wasn’t sure what to do. She tilted her head to one side and stared directly into Chuck’s eyes. Her nails dug into Chuck’s cheeks and broke the surface of the skin. Chuck jerked back instinctively, but her grasp was too tight. He felt pressure from his jaw to his cheekbones. He tried to scream, but nothing came out.

He felt the pressure for a few more seconds. Then nothing.

He was now in his bed.

He shot straight up and grabbed his own face, breathing heavily. No crazy woman hands. No scratches. He was perfectly fine. Taking a quick look around the room, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. The windows weren’t shattered. Nothing had fallen off any shelf and broken into a million pieces.

A vision.

Chuck lay his head back down on the pillow and put his hands over his eyes. He’d never had a vision like this before. Sure, they’d all been weird and vivid and violent, but this one was different. Namely because he’d never seen himself in them. Ever.

His hands trembled as he moved them away from his eyes. He stared up at the ceiling for a few moments before sitting back up in bed, enjoying the bit of relief that he was physically fine.

That relief didn’t last long as he saw his agent in a black suit sitting on the edge of the king size bed.

“Sleep well?” the man said, his back twisted a bit to look at him.

Chuck jumped. “Jesus Christ!”

His agent smiled. “Not even close, and I take offense to that.”

Chuck threw himself back down on the pillow. “You scared the shit out of me, Mr. Crowley.”

“Terribly sorry, sweetheart,” Crowley cooed sarcastically. He stood from the bed and circled around so he was right next to Chuck. “But now’s not the time for post-coital cat naps.”

Crowley leaned forward, his head hovering directly over Chuck’s like a black cloud. The man was so close, Chuck could smell him. Scotch and sulfur.

A smile wiped across Crowley’s face. “I’m here to cash my check.”


	4. Chapter 4

January 1, 2015 – Lawrence, KS

They were outnumbered. It was obvious from the get-go.

Castiel saw Risa come up to his side, revolver ready, firing. Her face was as stoic as ever, but her eyes betrayed her feelings of hopelessness. She was suddenly hurled back against the brick wall of the mental hospital before them. They hadn’t even made it through the front door and they were already doomed.

Chuck died first. He was always the weakest. Everyone knew it. Chuck’s left eye had been poked out by a stab-happy demon in 2013. Chuck’s wound had healed, but finding a spare eyeball in the apocalypse had proven difficult. And without decent depth perception, he was useless with a gun. He’d even accidentally shot through one of the windows back at camp, shattering the glass and puncturing a hole through one of their precious water tanks.  

A scream came from the brick wall. Risa sprung up and fired at the demon that had snapped Chuck’s neck like a cracker. Another one came for her from behind. She elbowed it in the gut and yelled for Castiel.

But he couldn’t move. His friends were dying and he couldn’t move.

Risa’s limp body collapsed, blood spurting out from her mouth and staining the pristine, green grass below it. She was still alive for about thirty seconds before she bled out, as the demon had stabbed her straight through her internal jugular vein. Castiel may have lost most of his angelic abilities, but he could still feel every little wound the humans around him suffered. He could also feel the last beat of their hearts, the last breath escaping their lungs, and their souls dissipating into the atmosphere.

Ten demons circled around him and stopped. They glared at him, their eyes black as onyx. Men, women, all extremely fit. Their vessels were probably elite athletes, maybe soldiers, before their souls were crammed into the deep, dark place situated just above the bowels. That’s where demons kept human souls when they possessed them. Right next to their own shit.

Castiel threw back his head and laughed. It was all he could think of doing.

“You got me!” he conceded. He grabbed the strap of the semi-automatic slung over his shoulder and slowly brought the weapon to the ground. The demons didn’t break rank, though he did notice one of them cock his head slightly to the side in confusion.

Humans. So confusing. He remembered that feeling. The confusion brought on when Dean laughed at a man getting hit in the groin with a football on TV. The confusion brought on when Mary got teary over the stone necklace Sam had gotten her in Mexico. The confusion brought on when Dean would feign a smile as he watched his baby brother grow up and find happiness, leaving him behind with his own guilt and misery.

The confusion of why. Why Dean would leave Castiel to die on his own.

On a completely rational level, he understood. Dean needed a diversion. Have his friends draw all the demons out to the front while he snuck in through the back door.

But Castiel could have been put to better use. He could have been by Dean’s side, like they’d always been. He was a good fighter. Dean knew that. Of course, neither of them had a snowball’s chance of surviving any of this. It was just a question of how soon into the fight they’d be dying.

Castiel didn’t want to die outside, in the damp of the dawn, the locusts humming in the distance.

He didn’t want to die alone.

He should be beside Dean.

This was all wrong.

******

April 23, 2010 – Lawrence, KS

The office in the corner of Turner & Winchester Auto Repair Shop was moldy and damp. It had just rained the day before and a fresh water stain had formed on the ceiling. The yellowing paint had turned brown in an oblong shape that vaguely resembled a bunny rabbit. Even with the lights out, it was still obvious they’d have to fix the ceiling before long.

Dean only noticed the discoloration because he was lying flat on his back on the linoleum-tiled floor. He’d slept there that night. After a round, or two, or ten of beers with his fellow mechanics, followed by a half dozen shots of whiskey with a recently divorced dad until last call, Dean had stumbled back to the shop. The bartender had taken the keys to his pickup truck, otherwise he would have slept it off there like he usually did. He’d gone back to the shop to pick up the spare keys he kept in the desk drawer. He made it all the way to the inside of the office before the floor looked far too inviting.

The office door opened and a light went on.

“Jesus H. Christ, Winchester!” Rufus Turner looked like he was about to shit his pants at the sight of Dean sprawled out on the floor. “It smells like death in here! What in Yahweh’s name are you doing on the floor of my office, boy?”

A verbal answer wouldn’t have done any good, so Dean kept his mouth shut. Or rather, he opened it just enough to puke in the wastepaper basket a few feet from his head.

Rufus didn’t get angry. He got that thing that all men over a certain age tended to get when looking at the youths of today making fools of themselves. He looked disappointed.

“Clean up,” he ordered, taking a step out of the office, probably to escape the smell of half-processed whiskey and beer nuts.

Dean sat up and squeezed the heels of his hands to his eyes, blocking out the light from the florescent bulb overhead.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

Rufus put a hand on Dean’s tricep and lifted him up. Even without looking, Dean could tell Rufus had that stern, concerned look on his face. He’d known Rufus since before he could remember. The man was his father’s business partner and old buddy from the Marines, making him automatically the uncle he never had.

“You ain’t working today,” Rufus said flatly as he helped Dean out of the office and into the main garage.

Dean wiped the corners of his mouth with his fingers, blinked a few times to acclimate himself to the daylight pouring in, and replied, “I’m fine.”

Rufus let go of Dean’s arm and the younger man stumbled in an attempt to support his own weight.

“You’re about 10 whiskeys away from not fine, boy,” Rufus snorted. “Plus you smell like something a cat would hawk up. A customer takes one whiff of you and they’re goin’ straight to that fancy new Jiffy Lube down the service road.”

If there was one thing Dean was good at, it was recovering from a night of bingeing. He wasn’t sure if it was genetics, seeing as his father had the liver of a fish, or if he’d just built up a tolerance after nearly two decades of drinking. He was sure, however, that he could spend a night ear-deep in booze and the next morning he’d fix any make or model that rolled or puttered through that garage door.

“Rufus,” Dean said after clearing his throat of bile and plastering a smile on his face, “I’m fine. Come on. I need the money anyway.”

Rufus clenched his jaw. That was his poker tell. Dean knew Rufus was about to break as soon as he saw his ear wiggle ever so slightly from his jaw muscles tightening up.

“Aw hell,” was all Rufus said before going straight back into the office and slamming the door. He hastily pulled the blinds down over the window overlooking the garage.

As soon as he was sure his boss couldn’t see him anymore, Dean’s smile disappeared. He could fix a car drunk, blindfolded, and with one hand tied behind his back, but nobody ever said it would be a pleasant experience. His insides felt like sludge. Every ooze of stomach acid felt like he was burning from the inside out as his own pulse whooshed through his head.

Wendy’s. He needed the Wendy’s across the street. It was early, but they’d be open by now.

That was his routine. Drink. Pass out. Get up. Wendy’s. Work. Drink. Pass out. Get up. Wendy’s. Work. Drink. Pass out. Get up. Wendy’s. Work. He wouldn’t put “sleep” on the list of things he did on a regular basis. The alcohol made him lose consciousness, but he hadn’t had a solid sleep in over three years.

Dean grabbed his stomach as he exited the garage. For a moment, he winced at how flabby he’d gotten. He wasn’t surprised, but he was still ashamed. He was QB in high school and had still played a bit with the boys when the weather was nice up until a few years ago. He had been muscular, lean. Now he had that same gut his dad had towards the end.

But that wasn’t the only thing that bothered Dean.

Just as he was making a silent promise to hit the gym after work, he ran into something. More like his teeth somehow managed to hit the back of someone’s head.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, reeling back and grabbing his front teeth then instinctively looking at his fingers to check for blood.

The person he’d hit whipped around a second after impact, but otherwise seemed unfazed. Dean knocked into him pretty hard, but the man before him didn’t seem to be concerned with the possible bite mark on his scalp.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said in that monotone that made Dean either want to clock him in the nose or give him a pat on the head. “I thought you would be coming from the other way.”

“Jesus, Cas, you coulda knocked my teeth out!” Dean snapped. But as he noticed Castiel’s head tilt slightly, he softened. “You OK there, buddy? I didn’t take a chunk out of your head, did I?”

Cas blinked and touched the back of his head as if to simply acknowledge that it existed. “I’m fine. We have bigger things to worry about.”

Dean began to walk across the parking lot. “Yeah,” he replied, “like how if I don’t get a Baconator in me in the next five minutes, I might have to kill someone.”

After hesitating for a moment, Castiel followed silently. Dean threw him a quick look through squinted eyes, trying to remember the last time he saw him. Four months? Six months? He hadn’t put snow tires on the truck yet, so it might have been about six.

This seemed to be Castiel’s thing since they first met nearly three and a half years ago. Show up unexpectedly, with not so much as a phone call or a text. Usually he showed up at work, though one time around when they first met Dean found him in the back of the truck, perched in there like a bird. The sight of him had nearly given Dean a heart attack. He’d stumbled to his car one night to find the man waiting there patiently, staring down at him with those bright blue eyes, saying his catch phrase greeting like he was paid every time he uttered it.

It was always the same. Cas would show up, always in that same ill-fitting trench coat, hair disheveled, looking for Dean. Rufus usually let him hang out a bit, occasionally making him organize the mounds of receipts, order invoices, and miscellaneous papers that had stacked up since the last time Castiel had organized them.

Cas would then follow Dean to whatever bar was serving happy hour the longest. They’d drink. Dean would play pool. Cas would watch. Dean would get in a fight. Cas would restrain the other guy in a matter of seconds. Dean would sleep it off. Cas would be there the next morning somewhere close by, sometimes too close by. Repeat for a couple days. Sometimes a couple weeks. One time it was a month. Sure enough, one morning, Cas wouldn’t be there. He’d be gone and Dean would go on with his life until the next time Cas showed up.

They got to the Wendy’s. Dean ordered a Baconator, a side of fries, and a Coke to go. He turned to Cas and, out of habit, asked if he wanted anything. Cas declined.

He never saw him eat. Not once. Not in all the time that they’d known each other. Alcohol, yes, they both unabashedly drank that in copious amounts, though Dean would be falling over his own feet shots before Cas even wobbled a bit. But food, never. Dean figured the alcohol had erased any memories of Cas shoving food in his face. He wondered what kind of weird, psychological issue he had in which he couldn’t remember his best friend eating.

Best friend. If that was what you could call him. Dean didn’t have any other friends. The boys at the shop, sure, but they seemed to only hang out with him because it made them feel like they were doing something with their lives compared to how Dean was living his. But there was no one Dean ever talked with like Cas. Hell, he hardly said much to Cas as it was, but whenever he got himself in a rut – which was often - Cas would be there with a sympathetic gaze and an extra set of fists if things got rough around the bar.

They sat out on the concrete divider between the parking lot and a yellowy patch of grass. Dean moaned as he bit down into the burger, washing the first bite down with a gulp of Coke. Nothing felt better than that moment right there.

“Dean,” Cas spoke when Dean was about three bites in.

“Cas,” Dean said in a gravelly voice, mimicking the way the other said his name.

“De- This is serious.” Cas frowned. They were sitting side-by-side, but Cas had positioned himself so he was staring straight at the side of Dean’s head, as if he was trying to will Dean’s head to turn and make eye contact. Cas seemed unable to have a conversation unless Dean was looking at him face on.

“Yup,” Dean nodded, licking the ketchup off the wrapper as he finished the last bite. “What is it this time? You discover toaster ovens? You see some teenager with a big plastic Spongebob pierced in his eyebrow? Or maybe you saw something you didn’t notice before in that boring ass movie you made me watch a million times? Feathers of Denial or whatever?”

“ _Wings of Desire_ ,” Castiel corrected hastily. “And no, none of those. This is… it’s…” Cas went silent.

Dean turned his head to face him. His eyes were as big and unblinking as ever, but this time, Dean could see something unsettling, bleary. If Dean didn’t know any better, he would say Cas had done something horribly wrong, and he was trying to muster the courage to tell him. A sort of I-may-have-killed-a-hobo look about him.

“What?” was all Dean could manage.

Cas gave one more moment of dead silence before he answered. “I can’t tell you.”

Crumpling up the Baconator wrapper, Dean stood and walked towards the trash can a few feet away. He wiped a bit of salt on his hand from the fries off on his jeans, took one last sip of the Coke, and tossed that in the trash too. He folded his arms over his chest and stared down at Cas.

Cas stared back up. “I’m sorry.”

“Nope.” Dean shook his head. “Not this time. I’m not doing this.”

“Doing what?” Cas always seemed like he was playing dumb. But Dean was pretty sure the confusion was sincere.

Dean wanted to berate him. He wanted to call him out for showing up out of the blue after – what? – six months? Showing up being as weird as ever. Mentioning secrets he couldn’t tell Dean because they were too goddamn secret for some reason Dean apparently couldn’t possibly understand because he was just some meathead mechanic who peaked in high school.

“You ever change that suit?” Dean asked, just to fill the awkward silence.

Cas looked down at his own chest slowly before looking back up at Dean. He sighed. “I don’t need to.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean started to walk back to the shop. “Listen, I don’t have time for this riddle bullshit. Rufus is already on my ass so I gotta be –“

He felt the weight of Castiel’s hand on his shoulder right over the burn scar he got some years ago. Something static ran from the base of his neck down his spine. This wasn’t just that tingly feeling people got when another human being invaded their personal space. This was something else altogether. Dean whipped around.

“I need you to listen to me.” Castiel’s voice boomed through Dean’s ears and into his brain. His face was stern, his head tilted down as he looked up into Dean’s eyes. No, not into them. Through them. Dean felt something knot in his chest.

Dean couldn’t break eye contact. Every muscle in his body twitched slightly, but he found himself unable to move. Castiel’s normally blue eyes were undoubtedly still blue, but now they glowed. Not in a froo-froo poetic way. They literally glowed with a blue light.

Castiel blinked and his eyes were back to normal. “It’s the end of the world.”


	5. Chapter 5

September 30, 1995 – Clinton, Kansas

The morning was quiet, dew resting in the chill of early fall. A few birds chirped gaily from the tree tops. A woodpecker shot out a rapid fire beat for a few seconds before silencing. Otherwise, the forest was still for those blissful five minutes before John had to lightly tap Dean on the shoulder.

“Leave your brother alone,” he ordered in a low voice.

Dean had been staring at Sam cross-eyed, probably making fun of how closely Sam was trying to concentrate. The three Winchesters were crouched behind a bush, the youngest of them holding a hunting rifle pointed at a doe in the middle of a meadow. A few dried leaves crunched as he squirmed.

“Dad, I can’t.” Even though Sam spoke in a hushed voice, John could still hear it quiver.

The boy was sensitive. He’d known that since before his son could even talk. Mary’s cousin Brenda had given the boy a pastel blue plush dog for his first birthday. As soon as the toy came out of the neatly wrapped box, Sam’s eyes had gone wide. He made a grabbing motion, forming a two-syllable sound that resembled the word “puppy”. When Mary handed it to him, the boy took it with both hands, gently wrapping his tiny fingers around the dog’s belly and back, careful not to squeeze too hard. He stroked the dog’s head and smiled at it, bringing it close to his face. He nuzzled his nose against the toy’s. The dog remained in pristine condition at least throughout Sam’s childhood, and Mary still kept it in the attic even after Sam outgrew it.

John remembered Brenda had given Dean almost the same dog for his first birthday four years earlier. Dean nearly ripped it from the box with one hand, flailed it around for a minute, then let it drop to the floor. The dog was in a garbage dump somewhere.

“No, Sammy,” John said firmly. “You made it this far. Just wait until it gets into your sights. Let it come to you.”

John saw a slight glisten in Sam’s eyes, possibly due to tearing from staring out into the meadow for so long.

“Dad,” Dean butt in, lifting his hands toward the rifle. “I can…”

John grabbed Dean’s right wrist. “What did I tell you? You never, ever grab a loaded gun from another person. Jesus, Dean.” He let go and turned back to watching the deer.

The hand that had prevented Dean from possibly causing a major hunting accident was now on Sam’s shoulder, careful not to let the plastic of the orange safety vest make too much of a sound. “Keep your arm steady. That’s it. A little lower. Remember. Just like on the decoy. Too high and it’s gonna just spring off.”

“And bleed out. Die somewhere slowly,” Dean finished the thought smugly.

“Quiet!” John hissed through clenched teeth. He wasn’t going to say that to Sam, but yeah, most hunters had a potential kill just get nicked by a bullet, watch it leap into the thicket and disappear. The law stated they had to track it, put it out of its misery. But with an already shaky boy and an unpredictable, smartass teenager in tow, John didn’t want to risk it.

Sam visibly shivered. Despite the fact that it was a crisp 55 degrees out, a bead a sweat rolled down his temple. The boy’s eyes were now getting red as he blinked furiously, still focusing on the deer. John’s heart sank.

“Sammy, you…” he hesitated. “You don’t have to do this.”

The boy’s arm relaxed as he turned his head toward his father. “I… I can. I mean, I don’t want to.” His voice was still high and boyish, but with a distinct crack to it whenever he got upset. “I don’t want to, but I can.”

John shook his head. The boy was sensitive. He treated a polyester, unnaturally colored plush toy like it was a living, breathing creature before he could properly walk.

“I know you can,” John said quietly, giving Sam a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder. “But you don’t have to kill her if you don’t wanna.”

They made eye contact for the first time since the beginning of the trip. It had been tense from the time they’d packed the Impala and driven out to the hunting grounds. John knew Sam was capable of ignoring Dean’s insistence on describing in gory detail how to gut a fresh kill. It wasn’t that that bothered Sam, from what John could tell. It was that single shot he would have to make. The kill shot. Take down something with blood pumping through its veins and Sam would become something else. It didn’t matter how respectful he was, how John would use as many parts of the animal as he could. How intellectually Sam definitely knew that chances were another hunter would take down that very beast if he decided to walk away.

It didn’t matter.

Sam wasn’t a killer.

When the gun was safely uncocked and back in John’s hands, Sam’s face scrunched up. He was crying. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the deer quickly lift its head at the sound before springing into the thicket.

******

April 23, 2010 – San Francisco, CA

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” Sam went on repeat. He might have just killed a woman. Some kind of zombified version of a coworker he couldn’t stand, but still. A woman. A human being with a pulse and parents and an apartment and the occasional need for horrible Chinese food on a Wednesday night just like the rest.

He might have just killed a woman and he was running away.

Sam reached for his phone and tried Jess again. Silence. Dean and Mom were exactly the same. He then tried his ex-roommate. His land lord. Domino’s. Every number he had programmed into his phone.

Nothing. Dead silence.

He veered down the street towards the hospital where Jess worked. He’d go to her, make sure she was safe. And then use her extensive knowledge as a doctor to help him explain how he just got jumped by a hoard of bloody-mouthed crazy people and what the fuck was going on.

Sam heard several popping sounds echo in the distance. Fireworks? His mind briefly wondered what holiday it was until he realized they were gun shots.

The headlights of the car reflected off of something a few yards ahead. Sam saw the orange vests of construction workers and slowed out of habit as he went under an overpass.

As soon as he cleared it, he heard a loud, dull thump on the roof of his car.

“Holy shit!”

He looked in the rear view mirror, past the gaping hole where the rear windshield had been, and saw something rolling behind him. It then stood up, its orange vest reflecting the bits of sunlight still peaking over the horizon.

Sam immediately sped up again, swerving to avoid the construction workers standing stock still in the middle of the road.

“Get out of the way!” he shouted, waving his left arm frantically, trying to signal them to move.

He then realized they all had that same, vacant stare, their bloody chins wobbling up and down like cows chewing on cud.

Sam’s eyes widened and his right foot twitched on the gas. He began to go faster.

The Prius nicked one of the men with its passenger side view mirror. Sam heard a distinct splat, like a watermelon being dropped from two stories high and smashing on a concrete patio below. Bits and pieces of bite-sized chunks flew across the right-hand window and slid towards the rear of the car.

Two. Two people he’d killed today. Well, three if he counted the guy who belly flopped on the roof of the car. Just 20 minutes ago his vehicular manslaughter count was at zero.

That last one apparently made the rest of them angry, as ten, maybe fifteen men in neon emerged from the side of the road and tried to block his way through. Sam had no choice but to slow to a stop, honking his horn furiously in a final attempt to get them out of the way.

They crowded the front of his car, moaning and gnawing at nothing. Their hands reached out towards him, clawing furiously at the hood and front windows. Their eyes were glossy, like they had cataract-induced blindness, unblinking. Sam wished he didn’t have the high beams on and couldn’t see them this clearly.

Sam made a feeble attempt to scare them off by slapping his hand at his window. He immediately felt like an idiot for doing that. Slapping his hand on the window. Like he was trying to scare off an angry wasp. That thought soon sunk into complete and utter dread as he realized a couple of them had circled to the back and were now reaching in through the gaping hole that had been the rear window.

He had no choice. He had to get out of there.

He put all his weight on the gas and the Prius, bless its engine, sped out of there like a champ.

In the cartoons, people always went flying when they got hit by a speeding vehicle. But in real life, Sam soon realized, most of them simply rolled under his front bumper. A hybrid car might not have been the optimal choice for running down mindless strangers, but the three tons of metal seemed to do the trick with a good splat and crunch.

Sam felt his very insides tighten and retch as he hit his fifth person. He tasted the acid of an empty stomach in the back of his throat, a faint flavor of coffee coming up with it.

He swallowed hard and was soon clear of the throng. He was safe.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the blood smeared on his right side window and he lost it. His jaw clenched. His chest tightened. His breathing quickened. He started hyperventilating. A panic attack. Now. Of all times.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been reduced to a helpless sack of nerves. The first was fifth grade when he tried out for the soccer team. A formality at elementary school age, but nonetheless, Dirk McGregor screamed down his neck for missing an easy goal. He may have become something close to a giant as an adult, but Sam at the age of 10 was a pip squeak. He had curled up into a ball, unable to breathe until Dirk thought he was possessed and called the coach. Mom had driven him home as he made her promise never to tell Dad.

From the outside, Sam was the nicest, most down to earth guy you could ever meet. Smart, funny without being cynical or mean, and a good listener to boot. In general, people liked him. Teachers liked him growing up. As an adult, the guys liked him because he was a buddy who would always give them a ride, and the girls liked him because he would treat them right without expecting anything in return.

More importantly, he was the favorite son. He knew it. Not in a smug, egotistical way, but he knew it. When Sam came home from school with gold stickers and A’s, Mom’s eyes lit up with pride and she would smother him in kisses. Dad wasn’t nearly as affectionate, but one closed-mouth grin and a slight glisten in his father’s eyes were enough for Sam to know the man was proud of his boy.

He never saw that happen to Dean.

When he was young, Mom would sit Dean down at the kitchen table, pour him a bowl of Lucky Charms and stroke his head. Sam, even from an early age, could see the way she looked down at Dean as different from how she looked him. Dean couldn’t see it, and Mom certainly put on a good face when he rushed up to her as she waited for them at the bus stop after school, but the look she gave him was nothing short of pity.

Dean wasn’t a terrible kid. Not really. Detention, sure, usually from smart mouthing at a teacher. One time he got caught shop lifting down at the mall when he was 13. Dean had told Sam that he’d given the mall cop a piece of his mind and it scared him so much, he let him go. But the younger Winchester later found out the mall cop just couldn’t be bothered with the paper work and let him off with a warning.

No, it wasn’t Dean’s behavior that brought on the pity. It was Dad’s lack of interest.

Sam saw Dad hug Dean once. One time. Sam couldn’t rightly remember if it actually happened, but he was pretty sure Dean ran into their father’s arms when he was eight after their cat, Noodles, got run over by the neighbor’s pickup.

As Sam grew older, he too started to pity Dean. Sam was the honor’s student. The class valedictorian. The one going to a big fancy school to get a big fancy degree so he could move out of Podunk Lawrence, Kansas, and into the big fancy city.

And what was Dean doing? Nothing. He just existed. He was just there. Hurting all the time.

Sam wished he had said something years ago. He wished he had told Dean. He knew he was hurting, and he, too, hurt. Sure, he was the Golden Child. But Dean didn’t know what was really going on behind that poster-boy-of-the-American-dream smile.

Sam took five deep breaths and tried to focus on the road ahead. The sun was now nestled behind the horizon and there was nothing on the road but him and his car. It was past rush hour, but when was the highway this quiet ever? Sam knew putting any more pieces of that puzzle together would only cause him to twist deeper into the attack.

A small white H on a blue sign reflected the light from the high beams and Sam relaxed a bit. The hospital was only half a mile away.

He wished he had told Dean. Now that they were on radio silence, he wished he could tell him at this very moment.

Since he was ten, since that first panic attack caused Sam to curl up on the soccer field like a wounded animal, he saw it inside his head. When he closed his eyes, dreaming. Awake. It didn’t matter. He saw it behind the lids of his eyes as clear as day.

Sam saw something sinister. Something sinister asking to let him in.


	6. Chapter 6

January 1, 2015 – Lawrence, Kansas

The only thing Chuck could hear was static, like a TV gone dead. He still remembered what that sounded like. Even before this all happened, it had been several years since he’d last seen the snowy screen of an old fashioned television set with tubes and dials and a wood-grain finish just like the one he had in the house he grew up in.

TV. Oh god how he missed TV. He missed just sitting there on a sofa, in an air conditioned house with the only thing on his mind being which Real Housewives were going at it this week. He may have been a beyond best-selling author in his pre-apocalypse days, but he would be the first to admit he would give up an arm just to go back to channel surfing at three in the morning with a bag of popcorn resting on his belly.

But that was a fantasy not even Castiel’s magical happy pills could fulfill.

They were crouched behind a row of thick bushes, guns in hand as Dean laid out the plan of attack. Risa had the binoculars to her eyes and a tight look on her face. Chuck knew she was listening. She was absorbing every word because she knew exactly what she was doing.

Despite the fact that Risa had spent nearly a year patiently trying to get him combat ready, or at least able to hunt for food, Chuck was a lost cause. He flinched every time he fired a shot at the row of tin cans and he always missed by a mile. And with an eye missing, he could hardly see the floor plan Dean had laid out on the dirt in front of them.

Dean was pointing at a large square. That much Chuck could tell.

“Everyone good?” Chuck finally made out two words of what Dean was saying.

Risa grunted and Castiel nodded. Chuck blinked dumbly until Risa put a hand on his shoulder. He turned to her and saw her wink. She’d have his back. He knew she would. She wouldn’t let him die here.

“Lock and load,” Chuck said unenthusiastically. He wasn’t sure what to say so he figured he’d speak Dean’s language and reply with a cheesy 80s action movie one-liner.

Their fearless leader eyed him for a bit, at first looking justifiably peeved. But for a split second, Chuck could swear his eyes softened and he looked nothing short of sad. Dean was many things. Tough. Crude. Just. But he wasn’t sad. The very thought of it disturbed Chuck on a whole other level, and Chuck had seen some disturbing things in the last four years or so.

Dean stood, but kept his head down and zipped off around the back side of the house. Chuck assumed this was part of the plan he’d unintentionally zoned out on.

Risa went into the same crouch-stand position a few moments later, but headed in the opposite direction towards the front. Chuck was about to do the same when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Does any of this seem familiar to you?” Castiel asked in a monotone. Again, Chuck found himself disturbed. When he’d first met Cas, the man had spoken like that. Flat. Deliberate. Like every word carried an equal weight. But Cas had changed into such a friendly, fun-loving guy in the last year or so that this was unexpected.

“No,” Chuck responded, swallowing hard.

Cas sighed and looked off into the direction Dean was headed. He then smiled, that big, dope-induced smile Chuck was now familiar with.

“Lock and load?” Castiel beamed.

Chuck nodded. They followed Risa.

******

April 23, 2010 – Lawrence, Kansas

“What the hell happened to your eyes?” Dean managed. Glowing blue eyes. Not something you see every day. And not something you let go unnoticed, even after someone tells you the world is ending.

Castiel frowned. “It’s the end of the world,” he repeated, louder this time.

“I heard you, Cas,” Dean said. “But I could have sworn I just saw your eyes light up like frickin’ Terminator just two seconds ago.”

Cas squeezed Dean’s shoulder harder, as if he were trying to gain leverage and compose himself. He sucked in air quickly. “You drank too heavily last night. Your brain must be misfiring signals.”

Cas was a terrible liar, but he did have a point. Dean certainly did drink too much last night, though not enough to clearly make someone’s eyes glow. It wasn’t like he was dropping acid.

“I may be an alcoholic mess,” Dean admitted, finally pushing Castiel’s hand off his person. “But I’m not crazy. I saw your fucking eyes glow, man!”

Taking a step forward, a mere five inches from Dean’s face, his eyes fixed on Dean’s before him, Castiel replied gruffly, “My eyes did not glow.”

Dean could see the stubble on his chin just below his lips. Huh. That was new. The trench coat might have always been a size too big, the blue tie on backwards, and the hair somewhere on this side of bed-head, but Castiel was otherwise always pretty tidy. Dean tried to recall a time when Castiel wasn’t perfectly clean shaven, his face as smooth as a baby’s butt. Not that Dean ever really noticed until now.

“Chill,” Dean said, pulling his head back as far as it would go without having to move his torso.

Castiel’s eyes darted from Dean’s left to his right. Back and forth. He was searching for something, Dean could tell. This was all too familiar. In the hour or so before Dean would slip into inebriated bliss during one of Cas’s visits, they’d have staring contests. Nothing official, of course, and basically initiated by the drifter-friend, but contests nonetheless. Cas would get close to Dean’s face as soon as they disagreed about something, looking at him straight on, their shoulders square. The rules – unspoken, and probably only in Dean’s mind - were the first person to look away lost the argument. Dean would usually pull back slightly, but found himself oddly transfixed. He couldn’t help it. The man held his gaze like a king cobra, and the only thing that would break the invisible, hypnotic tether would be if Dean conceded. And he usually did.

Dean normally at this point swatted Cas away in public, but the parking lot today was deserted, so no one could see as Cas grabbed Dean’s arm and started to drag him towards the back of the Wendy’s.

“Whoa, whoa!” Dean protested. “I know I’m cute and all, but are you at least gonna buy me dinner first?”

Cas stopped for a brief second before proceeding. His grip was tight. Not just tight, but impossible to slip out of. Dean struggled a bit, but kept getting pulled forward, his legs going on autopilot to keep up with the upper part of his body.

“This is all wrong,” Castiel mumbled, repeating what he said earlier.

“No shit,” Dean responded, though he knew he wasn’t being spoken to. “Where the hell are you taking me?”

They rounded the corner of the Wendy’s building and Dean spotted what looked like something even Austin Powers would find too cliché to shag in: a 1978 Lincoln Continental.

“Get in,” Cas ordered as he let go of Dean’s arm and went for the driver’s seat.

Dean stood there for a few moments while Cas motioned for him to get in the passenger’s side. He blinked a couple times, then shook his head. “Since when do you have a car?”

Cas answered flatly, “I’m borrowing it from a friend.”

Dean realized it was insensitive to laugh, but he did anyway. In the nearly four years he’d known Castiel, not once had he ever met anyone else the man knew, nor had he even mentioned coming in contact with other human beings. He never mentioned family, where he grew up, where he stayed in those long stretches of absence, what he even did for a living. Sometimes, in a drunken stupor, Dean would begin to suspect that only he could see Cas, that the stranger who never changed out of that trench coat and navy suit was just a figment of his alcohol-poisoned imagination.

“I’ll take you to him,” Cas added, opening the door and stepping inside the car.

Dean followed suit, still snickering a bit. “Alright, let’s meet this ‘friend’ of yours, Cas.”

A flicker of a smile crawled on to Cas’s face as he watched Dean get in before he turned stern again. “Please buckle your seatbelt.”

“OK, Mom,” Dean mumbled, obliging.

“I’m not your mother,” Castiel replied quickly before turning his focus to the rearview mirror. He carefully adjusted it, then shoved the keys into the ignition on the side of the steering wheel. The car started with a grumble.

“Ten and two,” Cas whispered under his breath, placing his hands on the steering wheel. He didn’t turn to Dean when he said, “Dean, I’m going to ask you to please be as quiet as possible while I drive. I have to keep all my concentration on the road, traffic signals, other drivers, and possible pedestrians or other unforeseen road impediments. Is that clear?”

Dean grinned at him silently, looking him up and down. Cas was as stiff as a board, his back straight up and hands practically white-knuckling the wheel. His jaw clenched and his eyes bugged out of his head like he’d just been asked to fly a Bowing 747 into a hurricane, not pull a car out of a parking space.

“Do you want me to-“

“Yes,” Castiel replied without even waiting for Dean to finish. He turned the engine off, unbuckled his seatbelt, and stepped out of the vehicle faster than Dean could think. They switched seats and Dean drove them out of the parking lot. Cas sighed beside him.

“So,” Dean said as they reached the road, “where to, Miss Daisy?”

“The highway,” Cas replied. “East.”

Dean obeyed and they were soon on Route 70.

“Now, Cas,” Dean said after a couple minutes of only hearing the hum of the old fan belt, “How far is this friend anyway? I gotta be back at work by the time we open at 8, so…”

“About another 380 miles.”

Turning his focus away from the road, Dean blinked at the man sitting in the seat next to him. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“It’ll only take about six hours,” was the dry response Dean got out of him.

Dean signaled right and started heading for the next exit. “Nope. I got work. I got shit to do. I’m not driving to Mordor or whatever fuck adventure you’re trying to take me on.”

“Sioux Falls, actually,” Castiel replied, sitting up a bit in his seat as he realized Dean was trying to pull off the highway. “And it’s not an adventure. We have to go. We’re escaping. It’s very important.”

The car skid to a stop on the shoulder, its wheels spinning slightly on the dry gravel. Dean let the car idle for a bit, glaring at the mystery man a few inches from him, before turning off the car.

“This is bullshit,” Dean finally said. Cas flinched as Dean continued, “You’ve been gone for, what? Six months? And today, no warning, you drop in with a ‘Hello Dean’ and an ‘It’s the end of the world’ and expect me to drive six fucking hours to Sioux Falls, whatever the fuck state that’s even in? Are you insane?”

Castiel looked down at his hands resting on his thighs. His eyes were glistening like they always were, that perpetual sad almost-cry face he had that drove Dean up a wall. He felt sorry for the little guy. He was weird, but seemed unabashedly loyal to Dean, no matter what shit he pulled.

One time Dean had drunkenly tried to pick a fight with Cas. He swung his fist right for his face, but Cas had ducked out of the way. Dean ended up weeping whiskey-salted tears in the back of the pickup. Without saying a word, Cas had patted him on the back two or three times before Dean drifted off into sleep. He never mentioned it again to Dean ever.

Softening his voice, Dean asked, “What is this, man?” He swallowed, unsure about asking his next question. “Who the hell are you?”

Castiel looked up and stared directly into Dean’s eyes. His lips were pressed tightly together, as if something was about to spill out and he just couldn’t hold it in.

He finally opened his mouth. “I’m an angel of the Lord.”

There was so much sincerity in that statement, Dean couldn’t tell if he should open the car door and make a break from the crazy or hug him. He decided to meet somewhere in the middle.

“Cas, buddy, you need help. Let’s get you some water or something.” Dean went to turn the car back on, but a hand lightly directed him away.

“I wanted to tell you when we first met,” Castiel continued. “But I couldn’t. I thought it would be safe here. I thought you could go through life not knowing about any of this.”

Dean inched himself towards the driver’s side door, pressing his left shoulder a bit against the glass. Castiel was always a bit loopy, like he had one foot in reality and the other up in the clouds. When Dean had shown him _Road Warrior_ , Cas had acted like he’d never seen a movie before. He seemed disturbed, asking how the other people could attack a man who was clearly on his own, lost in a world that had wiped out the bulk of humanity. Dean had to shut off the movie about halfway through and put on _National Treasure_. Cas seemed to like that more.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dean gulped his words. “Safe? What do you mean? Safe from what?”

Cas sighed. “You were not supposed to be exposed to this. But now it’s happening. Lucifer has risen. He found his vessel and she will let him in. It was supposed to be Sam, but…”

Any mention of his brother would warrant an interruption. “What was supposed to be Sam? And Lucifer? Cas, seriously, you’re freaking me out here.”

Shaking his head, Cas continued, “Sam was supposed to be Lucifer’s vessel. It was in the Prophecy of Chuck.”

“Prophecy of Chuck?” Dean began to reach for the door handle. The guy was clearly sick in the head.

“You know him as Carver Edlund,” Cas clarified.

“Who’s- Wait, that shitty _Supernatural_ writer guy?” Dean almost laughed if he weren’t suddenly extremely concerned for his pathetic little friend.

“In the Prophecy of Chuck, Sam is groomed practically from birth to be the vessel, feeding on demon blood in the cradle and later as a young man. Upon killing Lilith, he opens the sector of hell that contains Lucifer. Using you and humanity as a bargaining chip, Lucifer convinces Sam to consent to being his vessel, thus getting possessed by the Archangel. This brings about the end of the world. You are prophesized as Michael’s vessel, but you never actually consent so Michael instead takes Adam. He’s your half-brother, by the way, though he doesn’t exist in this reality. The world never ends in the prophecy, but, Dean…”

“That’s great, Cas,” Dean finally said. He reached for the handle and opened the door. “Bye now.”

A blue minivan nearly hit him as he got out, but Dean didn’t care. Whatever was outside was clearly safer than the spew of crazy that just graces his ears inside the car. He heard his name getting called as he marched toward the sign that indicated a service center in two miles. Since he assumed his Wendy’s run wouldn’t turn into running away from the crazy person, he hadn’t thought of bringing his cell phone with him. He’d have to use the pay phone to call for help.

“Dean!” Castiel was soon directly behind him. “Wait!”

Dean whipped around and put a hand up. “You need to back off, Cas,” he ordered.

The expression Cas gave him was a mixture of confusion and pure, emotional pain. Dean had turned around, completely ready to defend himself from whatever coo-coo bullshit Castiel was about to rain down upon him, but now he just felt bad. He knew that Cas believed every bit of that looney tunes story. His shoulders were hunched over, exhausted and defeated. His brow furrowed above those eternally sorrowful eyes. His mouth opened slightly as he sighed.

“Dean.” The sigh turned into a name. “What can I do to make you believe me?”

Lost. That’s what Cas looked like. He looked lost and tired and completely out of his mind. Cas had always been the cool one. Calm when Dean had the fiery rage billowing up in his chest, unhinged by the loss of inhibitions from the sauce. Cas was always there when Dean wasn’t right. Always. Now Dean had to be there for him.

“Wait by the car,” Dean finally said.

“But Dean, we don’t have ti-“

Dean patted Cas’s shoulder. Firmly, but not in a controlling way. His hand lingered for a second before dropping to his side.

“Wait by the car,” Dean repeated. “I’ll be back.”

Dean left and made it to the service center where he found a pay phone and called 911. He told the operator that a very sick man was in need of assistance off Route 70. He then waited for the bus to take him back to the strip mall across the street from Turner & Winchester Auto Repair Shop.

Dean had to be there for Cas.

But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update's a bit late due to a long, rough weekend. Phew. Anyway, enjoy!

August 16, 1978 – Lawrence, Kansas

The bump was obvious. Even a blind man could see it. It protruded from inside the dress like a giant beacon. Mary sighed.

She didn’t really care what other people thought. She loved John, and knew John loved her, and honestly, the bitter hens around the neighborhood would be pecking and prodding at every little detail of their marriage as it was. It was in their nature.

She was five months pregnant at this point. The morning sickness had stopped about a month ago and now she was in a state of constant hunger. The baby wanted fried food and buttery sweets. Pie, to be specific. She had to remember that as soon as he or she could eat solid foods, Mary would make the little kicker a nice, big apple pie. Her mouth watered at the thought.

The curtains of the dressing room flew open as the seamstress barged in without excusing herself.

“Oh well look at-“ she started with her canned reaction to brides-to-be. Shower them with oo’s and ah’s and they’ll be happy in a potato sack. But the woman didn’t finish and her eyes went directly to the baby bump.

“It’s a little tight,” Mary stated sheepishly, pointing at her belly. “Here mostly.”

The woman eyed her in the full length mirror for a moment before responding. “I can see that.”

Mary rolled her eyes as the woman began to tug at the dress, trying to get it to stop bunching around the hips.

“Well,” the woman finally said, exasperated, “I can take it out. When’s the wedding again?”

The corners of Mary’s mouth curled up a bit at the word “wedding”. “Next week Friday.”

“Uh-huh,” the woman snorted. “Good good. You won’t get any, um, bigger before then.”

Mary shook her head. Lawrence wasn’t exactly Height and Ashbury when it came to liberal leanings. She was 24, a working adult, with a loving fiancé who was generally respected in the community as a Vietnam Vet. The war may not have been all too popular on the coasts, but Middle America, especially the old fashioned racists in town, was all for sticking it to the commies. It didn’t matter if they couldn’t point out Vietnam on a map.

No, their problem with her was that she had the audacity to have sex before tying the knot. How progressive. The pregnancy might as well have been a big, fat scarlet letter to them. Like she wanted to get knocked up.

Mary and John had been dating for years off and on. Their relationship ran hot and cold, the latter being during times when John would call her up at her parent’s house at three in the morning, drunk off his ass.

The man had little direction in life other than the one leading him to the nearest liquor store. He had a decent job as a mechanic with vague dreams of buying a house and raising a family. That was alright in her book, and it wasn’t like a diner waitress such as herself was going to catch the eye of Robert Redford anytime soon.

Yeah, John was fine. But Mary couldn’t help but think that if the condom hadn’t broken that one time, if the stars hadn’t aligned like they did, he probably wouldn’t have proposed to her and she certainly wouldn’t have been so gung-ho about this whole marriage business. And she certainly wasn’t going to willingly bring a child into this world. Not with what she knew. What she’d seen.

“Alright,” the seamstress sighed after taking a few measurements. “All set.”

“Thank you,” Mary said. “Can you undo me in the back?”

The woman obliged.

“You know, it’s not my place, but,” the woman began. Mary prepared herself for another massive eye roll. “But should you really be wearing white?”

Mary bit down on her tongue to keep herself from lashing back at the woman. Her father had taught her how to keep her cool in shitty situations, and she had been under much worse fire than this.

Still, she whipped around, nearly ripping the dress in the process. She realized she was staring into urine-yellow eyes.

“You,” was all she could manage as she took a step back. She reached for a metal shoe horn off to the side before realizing the seamstress was standing on the hem of her dress. Mary fell over. She instinctively clutched her abdomen with one hand and made a break for the shoe horn just out of reach with the other.

A hand reached for her neck and shoved her against the mirror. Her head hit it hard, but the glass didn’t break. She wished it had. She could have used the broken glass shards as a weapon.

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” the demon said in sing-song. “Leaves the sinful life of a hunter to fit in with society and what happens? Knocked up within months? I have to say. I’m quite proud of my little girl.”

Mary tried to kick the demon in the stomach, but found herself unable to move. It was restricting her muscles.

“What do you want?” she choked, looking past the face of the middle age seamstress and directly into the corrupted soul of the demon.

“Oh, just a courtesy call,” it said with a smile. “You remember our deal.”

It wasn’t a question, so Mary didn’t feel the need to respond.

It let go of her neck, but kept her muscles restrained as it stood up and took a step back. “You know, I’m really looking forward to this. Gonna stand up on the roof tops and sing, ‘This is the end, my friend.’ Love that tune.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Mary spat.

The demon eyed her for a moment. “Hey, I’m looking out for you. I’m just making sure you’re taking your prenatal vitamins.”

Mary struggled with all her might to break free of the demon’s grasp, but nothing worked.

“No!” she shouted. “Not now. Not like this.”

A nasal laugh escaped the seamstress’s mouth. “You’re right. Shouldn’t be drinking while pregnant. I heard that’s bad for the little tyke.”

Something appeared in its hand. A bottle filled with crimson.

“Just remember: As soon as it pops, you’re back on your medication,” it continued. “In fact, we’re upping the dose.” The bottle suddenly disappeared. “You’ll find that all toasty warm in the back of your linen closet in five months. Don’t worry. Daddy will never find it.”

The demon stepped forward and placed a hand on her belly. It leaned in close to her face, close enough that she could smell sulfur on its breathe.

“I’m going to be upfront about this,” it murmured into her ear. “We’re keeping the runt alive for leverage. If you don’t drink that blood as soon as it comes special delivery to your quaint little house with your white picket fence, we’re killing him. No warning.”

Mary’s eyes were wild as she shook, trying with all her might to head butt the demon.

It backed away a few inches. “I see you’re upset,” it said with feigned sympathy. “Sorry for spoiling it. Yes, it’s a boy.”

Mary blinked for a split second.

The demon was gone.

******

April 23, 2010 – San Francisco, CA

A street light over the highway flickered and went out briefly. It came back on just in time for Sam to see two figures standing in the middle of the otherwise empty road, their arms flailing rapidly over their heads. He slowed. Those things from before didn’t move their arms like that, and they certainly didn’t shout for him to stop.

His vision was still blurry from earlier, his heart still racing, but he had calmed a bit since his panic attack. Still, when he tried to focus on the faces and shapes of the two people in front of him, he couldn’t quite make anything out. It wasn’t until he heard his name that he completely came to.

Jessica ran to the driver’s side of the car with a smile wider than any Sam had ever seen her make. She attempted the handle, but it was locked. After a few seconds of fumbling with shaky hands, Sam eventually found the door lock. He flung the door open and leaped out of the car.

“What are you doing here?” Jessica said, her voice muffled in Sam’s sweat-soaked dress shirt as she clung to him.

Sam stroked the back of her head, unable to speak. Oh, you know, honey, just killed a few people in a fit of panic as they tried to chomp my face off. By the way, picked you up a bag of M&M’s at the gas station.

Holding Jessica like this, Sam began to question everything that had happened in the last half hour. Those people, or things, or whatever, had certainly come out of nowhere with blood dripping down their faces, smashing windows and miraculously showing zero signs of injury after leaping off an overpass. Yet Sam, the boy who’d fainted when it was time to dissect a frog in seventh grade biology, had run them over like it was nothing.

How could he look Jessica in the eye and tell her what he’d done?

A strange voice came up behind them. “Dr. Moore, um, we’re not alone.”

Jess let go of Sam and they both turned to the source of the voice. Jessica immediately followed the direction the person was pointing, but Sam’s eyes stayed on her. It was a woman in her mid-20s in loose, pastel blue pajamas. Her eyes flashed at Sam for a split second before looking back into the distance.

“There’re more of them,” Jessica whispered. “We have to get out of here.”

Sam finally looked in the direction everyone else seemed to be so concerned about to see a dozen or so people hobbling towards them over a grassy hill. Their movements were jerky, erratic, like they were hooked up to an exposed electrical outlet and constantly receiving low jolts of electricity.

Sam felt a hand on his wrist and flinched. It was Jessica pulling him back towards the car.

She headed for the front passenger side while the other woman made her way for the back. Sam found himself seated again in his car and expected Jessica to get startled at the sight of the window. Instead, she opened the door deliberately and sat herself down. She hadn’t seen the brains and blood on the window. It was probably too dark at this point.

“Oh god!” Sam heard the other woman retch and take a few steps away from the car.

“What?” Jessica said in a panic, whipping around to look at the back seat. Sam followed suit and soon regretted it. This whole joy ride of horror, he hadn’t thought to look at what had initially smashed his rear windshield. Resting between the back of Jessica’s seat and the edge of the backseat was what looked like a stick covered in rags. It took Sam all of four seconds to realize it was a femur, skin and muscle dangling off.

Without an ounce of hesitation, Jessica reached back, grabbed the bone, and flung it out the open back door. The other woman screeched as it barely missed her. Sam watched the bone hit the pavement, making a sound not too different from a discarded baseball bat accidentally hitting the dugout.

“There’s no time, Ruby!” Jess yelled. “Get in!”

Hands up by her face, perhaps instinctively protecting herself from any other stray body parts that might be hurled her way, the woman jumped into the car and slammed the door. Sam stepped on the gas and they drove away just as the hoard of zombified people ambled up to the car, snarling and moaning.

“Jess,” Sam finally managed to get out of his now completely dry mouth, “are you hurt? What happened?”

Jess rubbed his shoulder reassuringly. “I’m fine.” She paused to look in the back seat for a moment. “It was… It was horrible. Just… I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s happening at the hospital too?” Sam asked, afraid of the answer.

Maybe it was just a freak, isolated incident. The police or the army or the survivalists or the Transformers would come in with their guns and tanks, run over all the messed up people, and everything would go back to normal.

“It started out as something that looked like meningitis,” Jess said, facing forward again. She was getting into her neutral doctor tone and Sam found a bit of comfort in that. “High fever, muscle stiffness. But then it started to get… weird. The patients weren’t typically coming in on their own. A family member or someone was bringing them in. They… they didn’t want to be treated. They started fighting us.”

Sam interrupted, “I know I’m going to sound like a broken record here, but you’re not hurt, are you?”

He turned to her long enough to see her shake her head. She smiled a bit, though it was a sad attempt at being reassuring.

She continued. “Some of them had teeth and hair falling out. Not just falling out. They’d rip them out.” She mimed the motion with her hands. Sam cringed.

“After a few hours, they’d eventually lose consciousness. When they came back to, they were-” she stopped.

“Different,” the woman in the back apparently called Ruby finished.

Jessica stared down at her hands for a bit. “It all happened so fast. Two hours. Three in some people. And it spread to the doctors and the rest of the staff. It got Yulia and Raj.” She trailed off at the mention of her colleagues. Sam remembered the last time he’d seen them. They were at a house warming party for an ICU doctor none of them really cared for. Jessica and Yulia had smiled politely as the man showed them vacation photos from his trip to a meditation ranch in Arizona. Sam and Raj had managed to find an Xbox 360 and played _Bioshock_.

“One of the patients threw herself at an orderly,” Jessica said after a few moments of silence. “He threw her back. She was this tiny 87-year-old woman and she lunged at him like a rabid pit bull. He threw her back and she fell into a scalpel another patient was using as a weapon. It went straight through her skull. I guess the force of it just…” She put her head in her hands and leaned forward, sobbing.

Sam wanted nothing more than to pull the car over and hold her. He had to settle with reaching over with his right hand and pulling her in to his side. Jessica was a brilliant doctor. She went to places like Haiti to vaccinate children in the slums. She had seen some horrible things in her life, diseases and symptoms that Sam couldn’t even imagine.  Never once had Sam seen her break down like this.

“Ruby helped me get out of there,” Jessica finally said, only slightly pulling away from Sam’s side.

“I didn’t see anyone else make it out,” Ruby said flatly. Sam glanced at her in the rearview mirror and saw her staring blankly ahead, the trauma worn heavily on her face. “I went in there two days ago with a bad case of food poisoning. Scallops. I’m never eating scallops again. I was supposed to go home at three o’clock today.”

“The hospital was on lockdown since eleven,” Jess added. She sat herself back up and wiped tears away from her face with the sleeve of her white coat. “I just don’t get why we didn’t get infected. I mean, we were in as much contact with them as anyone else. It seemed to be air born, considering how quickly it went from one individual to the other, so why…”

Sam interrupted her with a squeeze of his hand. “Don’t worry about that now. We have to concentrate on getting to safety.”

“Safety?” Jessica repeated the word like it was foreign to her. “Where? The cops came to the hospital, and now they’re all infected. The army? I saw them drive by in their Humvees. I saw some of them jump out of those vehicles with blood dripping down their mouths. Did you see the TV at all today? It’s not just here, it’s not just San Francisco. It’s everywhere. They’re everywhere.”

 “We’re all that’s left,” Ruby chimed in.

“No.” Sam shook his head. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. This was just another dream. The devil was taking his night terrors to the ultimate extreme and, boy, did he get Sam this time! Might be about time for him to wake up, shaken, sure, but in their queen-sized bed, Jess next to him with her hair tussled in the way only she could make look beautiful.

“No,” Sam repeated himself, “Dean. Dean’s still alive. He called me about forty-five minutes ago.”

Jess sat up straight in her seat. “Your phone still works? We couldn’t get anything through since about two!”

“It died right after the call,” Sam replied, which made Jess slump back down.  

He glanced at Jess for a brief second, catching a disappointed look on her face. Odd. He’d just told her Dean was still alive and of a sound enough mind to make an urgent phone call to his one and only brother, a brother whom he barely spoke to nowadays, but family nonetheless.

Jess and Dean had never really gotten along. Not that they ever hated each other. It was just a simple matter of not having much in common other than Sam. Dean was an alcoholic mechanic who spent most of his free time posturing for trashy women and picking fights with even trashier men, while Jess was a respected young doctor who maybe occasionally had a glass of wine when they were out for their monthly fancy date night. Whenever Sam was home in Kansas for the obligatory holiday, Jess would give Dean a polite peck on the cheek and ask how things were going at the shop. Dean would say the word “good” twice, with a bob of his head before he’d return to his Barco lounger and Jess would scamper off to the kitchen to help Mom, visibly relieved to have an out of that conversation. Their relationship might be something along the lines of love by association. But cold just wasn’t in either of their personalities.

Ruby piped up, “You know someone who’s,” she paused, as if searching for the right word, “around? Can we go to them? Can they help us?”

Sam shook his head. “No, my brother’s nowhere near here. He’s all the way in K-“

He was cut off. Or rather, the car was cut off by a semi-truck careening through the concrete barrier separating the lanes of the highway about thirty yards ahead of them. A scream came from the backseat of the car as Sam slammed on the brakes. The truck ahead of them tipped slightly when the cabin bent away from the carrier like a person with a broken neck. It came to a stop just as a figure hobbled out.

“Turn around!” Jess screamed.

The faint hum of the hybrid engine echoed in Sam’s ears as he was unable to move. He could feel Jess’s nails digging into his right arm, urging him to put the car in reverse and get them the hell out of there. He could hear Ruby whimpering in the back. He could feel her pulling at the plastic rack on the back of his seat.

The high beams shone on the side of the truck. There was something painted on the side in red lettering.

Sam swallowed hard as he read it.

The figure hobbled closer, gaining speed. Jess screamed in his ear.

He’d seen the lettering before.

“CROATOAN”


	8. Chapter 8

December 14, 2006 – Lawrence, KS

The car radio was off and all that could be heard was the low hum of the engine interrupted by the occasional swipe of the windshield wipers. It was hours before sunrise. Not another car on the road. The headlights reflected the black ice ahead.

John kept his hands steady on the wheel of the Impala. He realized he was hardly breathing, waiting for something to happen. The silence was the worst. It was always silent in Nam before the shit hit the fan. He remembered a kid named Smothers breathing heavily next to him as they lay flat on their bellies by the side of the unpaved road, their fatigues soaked through with mud and sweat. A grasshopper or something flew into Smothers’ ear. As he swatted it away, a bullet went through his hand. John heard him scream and stand straight up, rustling the grass around him. Another bullet went into his neck.

Yeah, silence was the worst.

“Dean,” John said, turning his attention to his son hunched over in the seat next to him, facing the foggy window. “You buckled?”

Dean wordlessly grabbed the buckle of the seatbelt and fastened it. John waited until he heard the click before speaking again.

“Third time this year,” was all John needed to say. Third time this year he’d picked Dean up at the sheriff’s office for a drunk and disorderly. “You’re gonna sleep this one off and then we’re going to talk about AA.”

Dean slowly turned over, his eyes red and dry, his face pale. John shuddered. The boy looked half dead. Twenty-seven years old and he was spending his life face down in a glass, getting in fights, and sleeping it off in a gray cell where men hollered and whistled as he took a leak. Dean was lucky John had friends on the force.

“AA,” Dean repeated with a hoarse voice. “Fuck that.”

John wasn’t sure if he should sigh or just start hollering at the top of his lungs for Dean to get his life on track. Instead, he replied, “You know this ain’t right. You’re gonna end up in a gutter somewhere in the dead of winter, and then what? How long do you think it’ll be before the cops find you stiff as a board the next morning, beaten to death by some trucker you pissed off? How do you think that’d make your mother feel?”

Using Mary as a bargaining chip was cheap, but John didn’t care. He was at the end of his rope.

Dean shifted on the leather. “I’m betting she’d feel horrible. You’d feel horrible too. Hell, even Sam might feel a little tingle of pain. For a while.” He paused to use his jacket sleeve to wipe the window. “Then things’d get more distant. One day, you’ll be sitting around Sunday breakfast, having pancakes and coffee, a little orange juice or whatever, and Mom’ll ask, ‘Did Dean like chocolate chips on his pancakes?’”

John glanced at him briefly. He’d never heard Dean talk to him this much, not in years, but he figured it was still the alcohol drudging through his veins.

 “And you’ll forget,” Dean continued, his voice quivering ever so slightly. “You’ll say, ‘I dunno, honey.’ You’ll both be kind of sad that you don’t remember, but you’ll forget about being sad later on. You’ll mow the lawn, Mom’ll pick weeds, and you’ll go about your day. Maybe for a second, just as you’re passing by my old 10-speed in the garage, you’ll think, ‘That Dean. What did he do with his life? Whose life did he make better?’ And you know what, Dad? I can answer that right now.”

“Dean, don’t talk like that,” John said, but he did know the answer. He knew it since the first time Dean had gotten in trouble at school for sneaking a bottle of Jack into the boy’s locker room, drunk himself sick after football practice, and ended up staggering home with a dried stream of vomit down his T-shirt.

The boy sat up straight in his seat. “Dad,” he said weakly and pointed ahead.

A buck stood stock still in the middle of the road.

John hit the brakes and turned the wheel, forgetting it was early winter in Kansas, it had just started snowing a couple hours ago, and the roads were as black and cold as hell.

The Impala spun. John instinctively pushed Dean back with his right arm.

They hit a ditch. The car flipped and skid upside-down across the inch of snow on the grass. The passenger door sprung open and Dean was flung out. The seatbelt was old and had snapped, John figured. His arm did little to protect Dean, and even less to protect himself.

John’s head hit the steering wheel. Dean was sprawled out in the bottom of the ditch. The boy’s neck was bent.

John stayed alive long enough to see that. To register what had happened. To know that a few feet away his son was dead.

John stayed alive long enough to see a man crouched over Dean, a hand on his forehead.

******

April 22, 2010 – Los Angeles, CA

“Talk to my accountant,” Chuck said, turning over in bed away from Crowley. He closed his eyes and hoped to go back to that horrible vision. Anything would be better than staring that close into the face of his agent.

Chuck could feel a weight move the mattress when Crowley sat on the edge of the bed right by his back. He heard a click of the other man’s tongue.

“This isn’t something any bean counter can help me with,” Crowley said with a slight annoyance in his voice.

Crowley was like something out of a book cheesier than anything Carver Edlund could dream up. There was nary a time when Chuck had seen him out of a black suit, black dress shirt, and black tie, and very rarely was the man seen without a glass of scotch in one hand. When he spoke it was something like a whisper, forcing Chuck to lean in close enough so he could almost feel Crowley’s breath on his ear. He had an English accent, which made him all that more mysterious and Bond-villain like. Chuck knew he was sleazier than a bookie for a cock fighting ring, but damned if that man knew how to make a book sell.

His agent continued, “Now, normally, I’d send one of my dogs in alone for this, but, seeing as you’re my special little J.D. Salinger Junior, I’m keen on making an exception.”

Chuck rolled back over and sat up. He squinted, trying to look Crowley directly in the eye, but he found it hard. The man smiled with his mouth, but his dark brown eyes were dull and dead. They always gave Chuck the heebie jeebies.

“Oh, I do love it when you look at me during,” Crowley said in his whisper-speak.

Springing up in bed and trying to ignore the last comment, Chuck replied, “Look, I’ve been working on Book 11, OK? It’s… it’s almost done.” He pointed at the laptop. “I can show you. I just need to type up the last little bit. Just a chapter. Or two. Or…”

“We’ll have plenty of time to explore the further homoerotic adventures of everyone’s favorite demon-punching duo right after you help me with a little something,” Crowley said, standing. He reached into his coat pocket. Chuck always wondered if Crowley was the only man in Los Angeles to wear a black, wool coat like a boss in a gritty English gangster film.

In Crowley’s hand was a slightly aged, yellowish roll of paper, a small red ribbon tied around the middle. Carefully, Crowley took one end of the ribbon between his thumb and forefinger and pulled gently. Once removed, he placed the ribbon in his coat pocket.

“What is th-“ Chuck started, before being shushed.

With one quick flick of the wrist, Crowley unfurled a comically long scroll, which stretched from his right hand, down to the bed, and clear to the other side right at Chuck’s thighs. Looking down, Chuck noticed something familiar.

“Is that my signature?” he asked, pointing at the ink next to a blood-red X at the bottom of the paper.

“Is that what that is? I thought a chicken had a seizure while holding a pen.” Crowley said sarcastically.

Chuck snorted. Crowley may be the sole reason he was rolling in a pile of cash, women, and drugs, but Chuck always found conversations with Mr. Crowley vaguely irritating. The man took that stereotypically dry British sarcasm to a whole new level.  He had the uncanny ability of making everyone in the room hate him, yet at the same time, desperately want to please him. Chuck once saw Crowley at a cocktail party convince a young woman - a vegan no less - to wear a dress made entirely of meat to a major red carpet event. The stunt landed her an extended record contract, but Chuck knew for a fact that she wrote a big fat check to animal rights organizations every month, along with a note that said, “I’m sorry.”

“Let me be straight with you,” Crowley continued as Chuck flinched, “we made a deal, oh, ten years ago to the day, and that signature right there says you’re bound to it.”

Chuck grabbed his reading glasses from the bedside table. Even with them on, he had to squint at the fine print at the bottom.

“Should the party of the first part…” Chuck began to read, but the scroll was soon furling itself back up in Crowley’s hands.

“Yadda yadda yadda, long story short,” Crowley said, then smirked. “You owe me your soul.”

“My sole what?” Chuck replied, suddenly desperately craving his morning coffee, maybe with a splash of whiskey in it. Oh and some turkey bacon and eggs. Maybe just egg whites. He didn’t want his personal Thai masseuse to deal with his back fat.

Looking like he was about to leap over the bed and strangle the trace amounts of E still coursing through Chuck’s system, Crowley answered through clenched teeth, “Your soul. Your essence. Your chi. Your life force. Your mojo. You may be too dense to remember, but ten years ago, we met in that charming little pub with the lovely urine stains on the bathroom wall, and you, bourbon in one hand, pen in the other, said you’d do anything to put those silly little dreams of yours to good use.”

Chuck’s face flushed. He did remember that. He remembered Crowley sitting next to him at the bar, nursing a Scotch, promising him the world.

“’These dreams would make a cool book,’” Crowley repeated the words Chuck had said that night, though he sounded far more articulate than the drunken Chuck probably had. “’I could sell millions.’ And you did, didn’t you? You sold millions and millions, and you’re up to your eyes in decadence. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Chuck couldn’t disagree with that.

“I had told you at the time,” Crowley continued, stroking the rolled up contract, “that such fame and fortune would come at a price. You’d enjoy it for a good ten years, and, correct me if I’m wrong, but you had enjoyed it, hadn’t you?”

Chuck nodded, gulping. He heard a dog bark in the distance.

“It’s been, as the kids say, real, Chuck. But all good things must come to an end. I scratched your back, now you must scratch mine.”

Suddenly, the barking wasn’t so distant. The bedroom door rattled, like a mass had slammed against it but couldn’t get in. There was a deep, unearthly growl. Chuck could smell sulfur.

Chuck nearly jumped out of his skin. “What the hell was that?”

“Oh, that’s just Growley,” was the not-so-reassuring answer. Crowley’s voice grew louder as he turned toward the door. “Just a moment, sweetie! Daddy’s not done with his evil exposition!”

“OK, OK, what do you want?” Chuck said, reaching for his wallet on his bedside table. “My money? I can give you money! Or how about my stash? Or Melissa? I’m supposed to see her tonight. You can have her.”

Crowley smirked. “I’m ashamed of you, bartering a woman like she’s yours to trade. No, neither money nor drugs will do you any good. I’ve got all that. You’ve seen my house, haven’t you?”

It was true. Crowley’s house was at least fifty percent larger than Chuck’s, and his blow and Russian models were about twice as good.

For a moment, Chuck thought he saw Crowley’s eyes turn red. Not bloodshot, but a bright, pure red so brilliant, Chuck was sure he was still overly sensitive from last night’s partying.

“I don’t like to repeat myself. Soul. I want your soul. And my pretty little pet is going to take it.”

The door continued to shake and the growling got louder, more ferocious. Chuck collapsed to the ground, covering his ears with his hands and squeezed his eyes shut so tight, he was pretty sure he sprained his eyelids.

“This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening,” he said several times to himself. “This is just a vision.”

He felt a presence next to him and looked up. Crowley was looming over him, glancing at his watch. “This has grown far too tiresome for my tastes. I’m a busy man. Let’s get on with it.”

Chuck heard the door fling open, but didn’t see it. He went belly-down to the floor and crawled under the bed like a five year old afraid of the boogeyman. He felt a panting heat on the soles of his feet. Not daring to glance at the source of that hot breath, he curled himself up into a ball and screamed, “Make it stop!”

“Oh, interesting,” he heard Crowley say. “I of course could make it stop. That is, if there’s something in it for me.”

“Anything!” Chuck cried. He heard the springs in his bed groan as a weight hit it and immediately sprung off. Now he felt the heat on his face.  

“You see, Chuck.” Crowley was as calm and cold as ever, which made Chuck’s fear all that more intense. “I could take your soul down to Hell with me. Oh, did I mention that’s where it would go? No? Well, better late than never. Anyway, I could do that. Another soul for my tally, another drop in the bucket.”

The heat and smell of sulfur was getting unbearable. Chuck pressed his hands over his mouth and felt like he was about to suffocate.

“But you are not just any soul. No, old Chuck Shurley is special. Those graphic visions of two young lads saving people, hunting things, family bullocks, those aren’t just dreams. They’re prophecy. They’re what is supposed to happen, what is ordained by the Big Man Upstairs.”

Chuck felt a line of drool on the top of his head. It burned his scalp like acid.

“Making you, Chuck Shurley, top-selling author, enemy of Stephen King, and emperor of the dweebs, a prophet.”

The panting slowed. The heat subsided. It was still there, but it was almost as if the creature next to his bed had backed off.

“And a prophet is a terrible soul to waste.”

The air cleared and Chuck couldn’t smell sulfur anymore. His face cooled and the acid drip to his scalp didn’t burn as much. He raised his head slowly and saw nothing from under the bed save for pristinely shined black leather shoes.

Chuck slowly backed out from under the bed, the carpet burning against his belly. He rose to find Crowley standing where he was before.

“Unlike the Man Upstairs, I’m giving you a choice on the little matter of your future. You give me your soul and you enjoy the toasty warmth of Hell for all eternity. Or you help me with a little project.”

Shakily, Chuck opened his mouth. “Project?”

Smiling with that patented wry Crowley smirk, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, flat gray square. Upon further squinting, Chuck could see that it was made of stone with some sort of etchings on it.

“Nothing major,” Crowley said, eyeing the object in his hands with mild curiosity. “Just a little translation project. You see, only a prophet can even begin to read this.”

Something in Chuck’s stomach knotted as he could feel what could only be described as a pulse emanating from the object in his literary agent’s hands.

“What is it?” he asked in nearly a whisper.

“This old thing?” Crowley said jokingly, yet he continued to hold it delicately. “Oh, nothing really. It’s just what some people in the inner circles are calling the Reset Button.”

“Reset button?” Chuck repeated the words.

Crowley looked him straight in the eye, his face suddenly serious. “If you want to get technical, it does have another name.”

He circled the bed and held it out to Chuck.

“The God Tablet.”


	9. Chapter 9

August 20, 2001 – Lawrence, KS

“Mom!” Sam yelled from the top of the stairs, his brand new, black backpack slung over one shoulder. “Put the camera down! I’m not going to kindergarten.”

Mom took one more quick shot before playfully putting the camera behind her back. “What camera? I don’t see any camera.”

Sam turned just enough to hide a smile. A smile which quickly faded when he saw out of the corner of his eye his brother’s bedroom door open just a crack. He could see Dean sprawled out face down on his bed, a pile of either clean or dirty laundry – it was hard to tell - shoved on the floor. His pajama bottoms and T-shirt were all twisted around his body, like he’d spent the whole night rolling around. The red digits on his rarely used alarm clock shone 8:37. Granted, it was a bit early for Dean, who at the moment was between jobs, but Sam would have thought he’d get up to see his brother off to the airport. Sam didn’t expect him to hop in Dad’s Impala and drive all the way there, but he expected something.

He knocked gently on the door and cleared his throat. “Dean?”

Nothing. Not even a faint murmur of recognition.

Sam shrugged and headed down the stairs.

It wasn’t like the brothers were ever that close. Dean was a good four years older than Sam, meaning they hadn’t been in the same school at the same time since Sam was in first grade. When they were younger, Dean seemed to focus most of his energy on finding a nerd to beat up, and Sam, well, Sam was that nerd. If Dean wasn’t shoving Sam’s face into a couch cushion, he was otherwise ignoring him. And Sam was perfectly fine with that. It wasn’t like they had the same interests anyway. Dean loved football and chasing tail. Sam loved D&D and model UN.

As they grew older, the merciless wrestling matches grew few and far between. A few years ago, they just stopped. It might have been because Sam had grown a couple inches taller than Dean, but Sam suspected it was something else. Now that Sam was officially a card-carrying adult, he realized he hadn’t exchanged more than four words with his brother at one time in about a year. “Pass the salt,” might have been the last thing Dean said to him.

Dad always said blood was thicker than water. Sam figured that was absolutely true, since it was nearly impossible to wade through to reach Dean. And it wasn’t from lack of trying on Sam’s part. He remembered his first school dance in seventh grade, wanting desperately to go to resident ladies’ man Dean for advice on how to talk to girls. When Sam had knocked on Dean’s door, he had been told to fuck off. Sam heard the bubbles of a bong coming from the other side of the door before he turned back and went downstairs to watch TV. Pot was his thing there for awhile. Before Dean discovered alcohol was more his style.

Sam never asked any girl out for that dance. He didn’t even go.

“You say goodbye to your brother?” Dad asked as Sam shoved his backpack into the trunk of the car on top of his overstuffed suitcase.

“Yup,” Sam lied quickly, not meeting Dad’s eyes. There was no need to tell either of his parents that Dean was deaf to the world of the awake.

Mom reached up and cupped her hands around Sam’s face and just stared at him, smiling.

“Mom, you’re freaking me out,” Sam said, his mouth slightly squished by her hands.

She shook her head. “I just want to get one last look at my little boy in front of this house before he goes to college.”

“Not so little anymore!” Dad said with a slap on Sam’s back. “Boy’s taller than the house and still growing.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “OK, OK, let’s go. I’m gonna miss my flight and then we’ll have to do this all over again tomorrow or something.”

Mom finally let go and circled to the front passenger’s seat while Dad got behind the wheel.

Sam looked up at the house and at the second story window where the curtains were pulled slightly back. He saw a figure standing there in a messy T-shirt and pajama bottoms. Sam stared up at it for a few moments before it waved.

Sam got in the car.

He didn’t wave back.

******

April 23, 2010 – Lawrence, KS

The giant, retro clock said 9:07 by the time Dean made it back to the shop. Rufus was standing just outside the garage door in his grayish-blue jumpsuit holding a wrench. Crossing the street from the bus stop, Dean feared for his own life.

“Where the hell have you been?” Rufus said loud enough for the elderly woman sitting just outside the office to hear.

Dean shrugged and made his way inside toward the lockers where he kept his own jumpsuit, name stitched over the left pocket and everything. As he reached for the door, Rufus blocked him with his arm before Dean could step one foot into the garage.

“Nope,” he said. “That’s it. I find you passed out in my office, drunk as a skunk, puking like a girl on prom night, and you make me angry. I let you leave to get a quick bite to eat over an hour ago, disappear, make poor Mrs. Yates over there wait because someone got sick on the receipt for a new taillight, which just happened to be in my office, and you disappoint me, boy.”

Dean stared at his shoes. He could have said he was kidnapped by a crazy drifter who thought angels were real and the end of the world was extremely fucking nigh, which was partially true, but he kept his mouth shut. In all honesty, he didn’t have any excuse.

“I’m done with you, Dean,” Rufus continued. He was looking him directly in the face, but Dean still refused to make eye contact. “I didn’t just hire you as a favor for your father, though being related to John Winchester didn’t hurt your case. I hired you because you’re damn good at fixing cars. Now if only you could learn how to fix your own life.”

Dean’s eyes fixated on an oil stain on the concrete floor ahead of him. He couldn’t help but feel that was heavy handed. He inhaled. For a brief moment, he smelled something that reminded him of matches.

“Get all your stuff and go.” Rufus seemed to struggle to get the words out. Dean knew he was at his wits end. It wasn’t Rufus’s fault, or anyone else’s for that matter. It was Dean who was a failure, a drunk, a loser.

He found his cell phone sitting on the top shelf of the locker and instinctively checked it. The cheap flip phone told him he had six missed calls and two voicemails. He pocketed the phone without even bothering to check to see who they were from. Bill collectors, probably. Or some bar owner harassing him about damaged property. Maybe, if he was lucky, some leggy brunette he slept with who was looking for a second ride.

Or maybe it was Cas.

Dean’s heart sank as he headed for his pickup, an old winter jacket slung over his shoulder. He’d forgotten to take it home when the weather started to warm up. Now it just felt heavy and smelled like mildew.

Of all the shameful, dishonest, and low things Dean Winchester had ever done in his miserable, alcohol-soaked life, leaving Cas on the road like that might have been the worst. The man was insane and needed help, and what did Dean do? He lied. He said he’d be back. Then he abandoned him.

Sitting in the front seat of the pickup, Dean flipped open his phone. Sure enough, the first missed call was from some number he didn’t recognize with an area code in Atlanta. Bill collectors, most like. The second was Mom. Probably checking up on him, wondering why he hadn’t come home last night.

Dean had been living with Mom since the accident. He told himself at first it was for her sake. She was a widow with two grown sons. She was alone and needed someone to take care of her. But after a year or so, things just got too comfortable. Mom refused to let Dean pay rent, and he eagerly avoided arguing that point. She cooked for him, cleaned up after him, did his laundry. The only thing she let alone was the truck. And the massive, rum-colored elephant in the room.

Deep down, Dean knew she was just trying to fill the void in her heart, trying to distract herself with mindless chores on top of her regular day job. It was unhealthy, but Dean needed it too. He knew that left to his own devices, he’d probably be out on the street somewhere, a brown paper bag with an empty bottle of Jack in one hand. Broken potential in the other.

Dean pressed the arrow button to scroll down to the next name. Four missed calls from Cas. He dialed the number for voicemail.

“Dean, this is… this is Castiel. I waited twenty-seven minutes for you, but you’re still not back. Some police officers came by inquiring about my sanity, but I assured them I was entirely sane. Still…uh… I did have to run away. They’re asleep in the back of the car I borrowed from my friend. I regret to say I had to use my angelic abilities to put them to sleep. Um… I don’t think you have your phone. You don’t have to come back for me.” There was a pause. “But please… please wait at the shop. Stay with Rufus. I’ll come to you. Please don’t move. Don’t go home.”

The next message immediately followed.

“Dean, this is Castiel again. I’m hitching a ride from – what’s your name?”

Dean could hear a distant voice.

“Steven. I’m hitching a ride from Steven. Dean, listen to me carefully. Do not go home. Stay at the garage. Please. Even if you don’t believe me. Do. Not. Go. Home.”

The messages ended. Dean put the key in the ignition. A crazy person was telling him not to go home. Logic would say that the best course of action would be to do the exact opposite of what a crazy person told him to do.

Dean stared down at his phone as the Verizon woman’s voice repeated on loop the numbers to press to save or delete a message.

_Do not go home._

The words echoed in his mind. He should be rational. He should be speeding home to check to see if the crazy trench coat-wearing man was threatening his mother with a package of uncooked spaghetti noodles or something. But instead, he found he couldn’t move. Something wasn’t right, and it wasn’t just the fact that his best friend had lost his marbles.

Something hit Dean in the pit of his stomach. It felt like a black hole, consuming every feeling of joy and happiness that had ever existed in his lifetime. He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror and was shocked at how he looked. His face was glistening with a cold sweat, his eyes wide and bloodshot. He hadn’t realized any of these things were happening to him externally or internally until just now, but he felt like the deep, engrained sense of doom had been there for decades. Looking down at the phone again, he saw that his hands were shaking. His nose suddenly filled with a smell, something like recently extinguished matches.

The phone vibrated in his hand. The preview screen told him it was Cas. He picked up.

“Hello?” Dean’s voice was shaky and dry.

“Where are you?” Cas sounded desperate. “I’m at the garage and Rufus said you left over an hour ago.”

An hour ago?

Dean looked at the clock on his dashboard. It was 10:32. He glanced out the window and noticed he was parked on the street outside his house.

“Cas, I…” he couldn’t finish.

“Dean,” Cas said with a feigned calmness in his voice. Dean could tell he was worried, panicked even, but was obviously trying to remain cool. “Do you smell sulfur?”

Recently extinguished matches. “Yeah,” Dean answered. He was so thirsty, he could barely speak.

“Where are you?” Cas repeated his question with a sense of urgency.

Dean glanced out the window again and saw the white, two-story house with the meticulously manicured lawn. He may have been a slob about his own life, but Dean took pride in keeping that lawn pristine.

“Home,” Dean murmured.

Just as the “m” sound left his lips, Castiel was in the passenger’s seat next to him.

“Holy shit!” Dean screamed, flinching and nearly throwing himself out the driver’s window.

Castiel took a few deep breaths. “We need to get out of here. Now. Drive.”

Still pushing himself up against the driver’s window, Dean stared at Cas, unable to move. Suddenly finding himself at his own home without any recollection of how he got there was one thing. He’d done that several times before blackout drunk. But being stone-cold sober and having another human being magically appear next to you out of thin air was another pile of weird altogether.

“How?” was all Dean could get out.

Cas’s hand was suddenly on Dean’s shoulder, shaking ever so slightly. He was scared. No, more than scared. He was petrified.

“We have to go. Dean, listen to me. If we stay here any longer, we’ll-“

Cas couldn’t finish his sentence because they were suddenly seated on the Winchester’s nice, stiff couch in the living room. This couch was usually reserved for guests. Dean and Sam weren’t even allowed to play in the living room when they were growing up because Mom kept all her family heirlooms and antiques in there. One rainy Sunday, an eleven-year-old Dean had smashed a porcelain tea kettle with a football. He’d convinced Sam it was his fault for not catching the ball when Dean threw it at him. When Mom got home from running errands, she said she forgave Sam, but he should be careful with things that weren’t his. Mom had kissed Sam on the forehead and helped him with his reading homework. Dean had eyed the whole scene from the kitchen, clutching the football.

“Hello, Dean.” A familiar voice greeted him.

Mom stood in front of them in her nightgown, her long blonde hair up in a half ponytail like she always had when she was baking.

“How?” Dean repeated his question, looking around the familiar room that suddenly felt cold and foreign to him.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like this, Dean,” Mom said, straightening out the skirt part of her nightgown a bit. “Mary stayed home from work today. She had a slight fever. Still, she was just about to start baking you a pie, actually. You should have seen how forlorn she was about you staying out all night. Again.”

Dean stared up at his mother. It was her face, her hair, her smile, her eyes, her voice. But it wasn’t her. No, there was something very, very wrong.

“Mom?” Dean tried desperately.

She shook her head. “No, I’m not your mother. Oh, but don’t worry. Mary’s fine. I have her tucked in a memory of you and Sam in the late afternoon on a Fourth of July. Do you remember? 1992? She was so happy to see you two getting along, playing with the garden hose, the neighbor’s dog chasing you around the yard. John grilling hamburgers on the old Black and Decker.”

She smiled kindly down at him for a moment before her face stiffened. Her eyes darted at Castiel.

“Brother, what have you done?” She took a step towards Cas. “Warding a pre-ordained vessel? Simple, obvious, but fairly effective, I must say. Whisk him away to safety and no angel shall ever touch him again.” Her face twitched upward into a smirk, then quickly fell. “Well, most angels anyway. But I guess all of that effort, the attempt to divert our brothers and sisters’ attention away from the vessel, and he falls right into the opposing side’s lap. I have to remember to give that demon who brought him here a little reward next time I see him.”

Her face returned to a smile, but this time sinister. The wrinkles around her eyes didn’t move.

“Brother,” Castiel said, visibly struggling to move. Something was keeping him seated on the couch, his arms tight against his sides. “You have no need for Dean. Michael has his vessel. Dean is… Dean is no one. Let him go.”

Brother? Dean’s mind was so utterly confused it was now in safe mode. Blank. This was all a horrible, horrible trip. He ate some bad mushrooms or something. Sure, he hadn’t done any hard drugs in years, but maybe in a drunken lapse of judgment, he’d ingested something nasty.

He tried to stand, but found his legs were like lead. He just wanted to take Mom, look her in the eyes, and tell her to snap out of it.

Mom shook her head. “I’m sorry. I truly am. I wish there was some other way, but I can’t let any of Michael’s potential vessels go running around free.” She reached out and put a hand to Dean’s cheek and stroked it tenderly. “Dean, you understand, right?”

The touch seemed to shock him into action. It was cold and stung, like dry ice on his skin. Dean wrenched his head away from her grasp. “What the hell did you do to my mother?”

She seemed hurt. “Castiel did do such a good job of protecting you from the truth, didn’t he? Your mother is fine. She is better off than any human soul. She will be happy for eternity because I’ve taken her as my vessel.”

Her hand stroked the top of Dean’s head. All the fear and hate in Dean’s consciousness seemed to concentrate in the part of his skull that was making contact with that hand, and each stroke felt like a beating with a massive sledge hammer made of ice.

“Who are you?” Dean asked, almost in a whisper.

“I’m Lucifer,” she answered matter-of-factly.

Dean never really paid attention in Sunday school, and their church wasn’t exactly the fire and brimstone type. He stopped going once he discovered sleeping in on the weekends, but he did remember one thing the pastor talked about.

“Satan?” Dean almost couldn’t believe the word coming out of his own mouth.

Lucifer nodded. “I know what you’re thinking, but I’m really not all that evil. I just get a bad rap. In fact, I’ll tell you what. I’ll kill you quickly and send you straight to Heaven. By all accounts, you should be going to Hell. I mean, what good have you done exactly in your life? You leached off the kindness your parents, you leached off the kindness of your boss, you even leached off the kindness of your own guardian angel, which I believe is pretty low, even for a human.”

Lucifer stood up straight and her eyes began to glow blue, an unnatural color that seemed to ignite from deep within.

“No, I am merciful. I will spare you the torment of Hell.”

“No!” Castiel screamed. “Brother, please, let him live! I beg you. You can stop this now.”

Lucifer’s eyes flashed at Castiel. “You’ll get your turn, brother. But I won’t be so kind to you. You’ve been a little thorn in my side since Father created you. Your adoration for these worms is beyond my comprehension. And this one in particular. He may be Michael’s vessel, sure, but what do you see in him? All I see if a waste. A waste of atoms, of energy, of the effort it took Father to make him.”

The blue glowed brighter. Dean wanted desperately to shut his eyes, but found he couldn’t. Every muscle in his body was completely paralyzed.

A hand reached towards Dean’s forehead. Dean could hear Castiel shouting, begging in the background, but his voice sounded distant and muffled. There was a white light in front of him. A high pitched whine shot through Dean’s ears.

It was suddenly interrupted by the crash of glass. A brilliant, red flame erupted around Lucifer. The thing that used to be his mother was quickly engulfed, screaming at an unearthly volume before disappearing.

“That bitch’ll be back in less than a minute,” a familiar voice said. It was Rufus, standing in the doorway of the living room. “I got one more of these holy oil things, but I don’t think she’s gonna be fooled twice.”

“Rufus!” Castiel cried. “You let Dean-“

“Sorry about that,” Rufus interrupted, shaking his head and helping Dean to his feet. “A little demon managed to nab me. Shook him off though. Guess all that possession training you gave us really paid off, Cas.”

Dean stood, though it felt like he was standing on a bed of nails. He leaned against Rufus for support.

His boss looked him in the eye and smiled. “Best to get you out of here ASAP.”

Castiel shot to his feet. “I’ll come back for you.”

Rufus shook his head. “No, you won’t. You don’t have it in you.” He let go of Dean and pulled out another bottle from a sack strapped over his shoulder. He brought a lighter up to the rag in the bottle, but didn’t light it. “Get out of here before I use this on you.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said earnestly before putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Rufus!” Dean said, looking at his boss standing in his living room with a Molotov cocktail. “What are you-“

Except Dean wasn’t in his living room anymore. He was in an office or a study of some kind. Stacks of papers and books littered every corner of the room, piled on anything that could hold stuff in general. Castiel was at Dean’s feet, collapsed on the floor, panting. Dean crouched down and put a hand on his shoulder. The man seemed unconscious, his brow furrowed deeply like he was in pain.

“Somebody help!” Dean yelled futilely, shaking Cas’s shoulder.

He heard footsteps. There was a man in the entryway of the room, a pot with what looked like baked beans in one hand and a beer in the other, staring down at Dean and the curled up man next to him.

“Oh balls,” he said. “You’re early.” 


	10. Chapter 10

November 4, 1999 – Lawrence, KS

“Winchester. Winchester. Winchester.”

The PE teacher’s voice echoed in his head as he stood on the foul line, basketball in hand.

“Christ boy, you’re as tall as a tree and you can’t play for crap,” Mr. Rooker said, marking something on his brown clip board. “And you forgot your pants again.”

Sam looked down. He was completely naked, save for his crisp, white sneakers. He desperately tried to cover his junk with the basketball, but it was already too late. That cute girl with brown curly hair from calculus was pointing and laughing, along with Boba Fett and Santa Claus.

Great. A dream.

Dropping the basketball, he turned and ran towards the bright red exit sign about a mile away.

“Nice butt!” a deep voice called after him, presumably Santa.

Sam kept running, but the exit sign kept getting further and further away. The lights began to go out on the high gym ceiling, one by one, until there was a single spotlight directly in front of him. Sam stopped and realized he couldn’t see anything else around him. A shadow bisected the spotlight.

“The naked in the gym dream again, Sam?” a voice whispered in his ear. It was neither deep nor high, masculine nor feminine. It was loud, yet soft at the same time. It thumped against his eardrums like a stampede of wild horses, yet he felt soothed.

“Sorry,” Sam apologized and he was suddenly clothed in a cotton T-shirt and jeans.

“Are you frightened?” it asked, the shadow moving slightly.

Sam shook his head. This wasn’t the first time he heard the voice and seen the shadow. The first dream it interrupted was a rather pleasant one that took place on a beach in outer space. At the time, he was scared, and woke up screaming. Mom had rushed into the room, assuring him it was just a nightmare. She’d waited until he fell back asleep.

But it wasn’t a nightmare. It never was. The voice told him things. It told him about the past, present, future. It told him about people he knew very well, and people he would never meet. It told him when the neighbor, Mrs. Fielding, had breast cancer. It told him when there was a hurricane down in Florida and exactly how many people would die. It told him about his grandfather the scholar. It told him his father would die on the side of an icy road while he was far away.

“I’m glad you’re not frightened, Sam,” it said. Sam could almost hear a smile. “It took us a long time to get to this point. Things started a bit rocky, didn’t they?”

The first year or so of hearing the voice, Sam had screamed himself awake. Anything to avoid seeing the shadow.

Suddenly, the gym floor turned into a highway. Sam was standing in the middle, his hands clutching something. A steering wheel.

“I’m sorry I have to do this,” the voice said. “I wish there was some other way, but…”

It trailed off as something rectangular began to materialize in front of Sam. Blood-red lettering dripped down the side of it. Trying to make it out, Sam squinted and leaned forward.

“The world is going to end. I can’t tell you exactly when, but it’ll be in your lifetime, and sooner than you think. Some of humanity will survive. Sam, this is your calling.”

Sam noticed something draped on top of the rectangular mass, something covered in a white cloth.

“There will be monsters. They’ll look human, but they’re not. These things will try to hurt you and everything you love. They will try to stop you, but you’re stronger than them. You have more power than you can ever imagine.”

His hands felt wet and warm. Sam looked down to discover the steering wheel had turned into something soft and slick and red.

“You must stay strong. You must keep your body and soul strong. Can you do that for me, Sam?”

Involuntarily, Sam raised the gooey mass to his face. His mouth began to water and his stomach growled.

“When the time comes, I will appear to you. Not as a shadow, but you will know me. You must trust me. You must let me in.”

Despite himself, Sam dug his face into the squishy mess he held in his hands. He was so hungry. It tasted like iron and warmth and life.

“Can you do that for me, Sam?”

Sam continued to eat wordlessly. He swallowed every last chunk and licked his fingers hungrily.

“Good boy, Sam.” The voice sounded closer. “Good boy.”

******

April 22, 2010 – Los Angeles, CA

“What is this, Egyptian?” Chuck said, holding the stone tablet at arm’s length, waiting for his eyes to focus with his new reading glasses on. He hated that he was getting old and needed those, and would certainly die if one of the swimsuit models he was seeing caught him with them on.

Crowley snatched the stone back from him. “First of all, you’re thinking of hieroglyphs, you under-educated twat. Second, you can’t just put on your bifocals and read it in your comfy sofa with a nice cup of tea. Follow me.” Crowley motioned towards the hallway to the kitchen and walked briskly away. Chuck followed reluctantly.

He still wasn’t quite clear on what had just transpired. He could have sworn there was a massive canine in the room with them just now, but there was no physical evidence of a snarling hellhound. He also could have sworn he saw his literary agent’s eyes turn bright red. There was only one explanation that Chuck could think of: bad acid trip. The only way out of this was to ride the wave and hope he didn’t see anything else freaky.

Crowley was now at the massive, oak dining room table, the tablet placed in front of one of the chairs.

“Have a seat,” he said. Chuck saw the chair pull itself out.

Obliging, Chuck plopped himself down and looked up at the man in the black suit next to him. “So, um, listen, I only took Spanish for three years in high school. Ancient hieroglyphs are kind of above my pay grade here.”

Crowley visibly clenched his jaw. “They’re not hieroglyphs. This is something much, much older than what those over-compensating rock builders concocted, though I do admire their ambition and ego.” He grabbed the top of Chuck’s head and forced him to look at the stone. “This is the Word of God.”

“Uh-huh,” Chuck replied. He looked down at the grey block in front of him and saw numerous carvings. It looked like random lines and shapes to him. He reached out a finger and touched what looked like a stick figure bird holding a candy cane. The tip of his finger felt warm.

“Mr. Crowley,” Chuck said after a few seconds, “I don’t know what you expect me to do. The Word of God… Um, you know I’m an atheist, right?”

Rolling his eyes, Crowley responded, “And my mother was a witch, but that doesn’t exonerate the fact that what you have there right in front of you is indeed the Word as transcribed by the heavenly dick commonly known as Metatron. And you, Chuck, are the O So Wise Prophet of the Lord, and therefore, have the innate ability to read His Holy Chicken Scratch. But if you’re telling me that you cannot take five fucking seconds to get a good look at the thing, I’ve got zero use for you and I will, without hesitation, bring my precious pooch Growley back in to play with your testicles. Have I made myself clear?”

Chuck gulped. “Crystal.”

He turned his head down and focused his eyes on the tablet in front of him. He still saw nothing but random lines, but the force of Crowley’s glare on the back of his neck was keeping him from saying so. Squinting, he brought his face closer. Still, nothing made sense. He thought he saw the letter “M”, but he was pretty sure that was just his mind desperately trying to read something.

He brought his hands to the sides of his eyes, creating makeshift blinders. Sometimes that helped him when he got eye strain from staring at the TV too long.

Something flashed in his mind. The word “shot”. It burned into the back of his retinas for a split second then was gone. He blinked rapidly.

“Here we are now,” Crowley said, seemingly satisfied. “Well?”

“’Shot’,” Chuck said flatly, the heat of the word still searing in his mind.

“’Shot’?” Crowley repeated. “That’s it? One word? Shot? The noun, the verb? Shot off like a rocket or a shot of tequila? Which is it?”

Shaking his head, Chuck replied wearily, “I… I don’t know. I think the verb.”

“You think the-“ Crowley seemed physically unable to even finish repeating the sentence from the immense amount of stupidity behind it. He took a few deep breaths then returned his attention back to Chuck. “Try again.”

He stared back down at it. Again, nothing.

“Your hands,” Crowley hinted with annoyance in his voice.

Chuck returned his hands to the sides of his face and stared down. This time, “Then came” surged like lightening into his skull. He repeated the words to Crowley, who then threw a blank notebook and a pencil down in front of him.

“Better,” Crowley said. “Write everything you see down. Don’t leave out a single article or preposition. Metatron wasn’t exactly one for straight-forward prose so we need to make sure we understand it completely.”

The name meant nothing to Chuck, but he didn’t have the will to ask who this Metatron was. A vein in his head pounded against his skull like a sledgehammer. His eyes started tearing and his nose began to run. With a shaky hand, he wiped away the snot and took up the pencil. He slowly wrote “shot” and “then came” on separate lines before putting the pencil down.

“The light,” Chuck managed to get out. “I think it would be easier without any light.”

Crowley glanced around the room. “Well, I wasn’t the one who opted for the floor-to-ceiling windows. Tacky, lets too much light in. Let’s see. Ah, I’ve an idea.” He snapped his fingers and a black, velvet bag appeared in front of Chuck.

Bad acid trip. Yes, that’s what this was. The massive headache explained it. Things materializing out of thin air and chairs moving on their own and rabid dogs snarling at him were just an added bonus.

“Learned this trick from one of your predecessors, a Mr. Joseph Smith,” Crowley explained, placing the tablet inside the bag.

As the stone moved away from him, he felt his headache subsiding. He breathed a sigh of relief. Before long though, Crowley handed the bag to him. The pain returned, though a bit duller than before.

“Prophet he may have been,” Crowley snickered. “But Old Joe got the Medium-Size Land Mammal Tablet Volume XVII and thought it was something much greater. He took loads of artistic license with that one.”

Chuck looked up at Crowley and simply blinked. His brain wasn’t sure how to process everything that was going on in front of him and in his own head. Crowley’s eyes locked on to his. Chuck flinched.

“Tell you what,” Crowley finally said, “I’ll give you a wee homework assignment. You sit here for, oh, say, six hours. Pour over it. Write everything down. You’re a writer, you take good notes. You do that for me and I’ll fill you in on the grand drama that is heaven and hell and the apocalypse, et cetera et cetera.”

Rubbing his eyes, Chuck replied, “Six hours? Crowley, I’ve been sitting here for two minutes and I feel like my brains’ll leak out of my ears!”

Suddenly, Chuck felt something solid and heavy latch on to his ankles. He glanced down to see cuffs at his feet, a thick, iron chain snaking its way down through a newly formed hole in his marble floor. The repair bill on this one was going to be astronomical.

“Only because I like you, I’ll make it five and a half. No potty breaks.” Crowley’s face curled into a wry smile. “You move one muscle from this chair and – forgive me if you’ve heard this number before - my precious pooch will have her jaws clamped securely around your throat.”

With that, the agent snapped his fingers and disappeared into thin air.

Chuck was past the point of assuming this was a bad trip. The weight of the cuffs around his ankles, the feel of the black velvet bag between his fingers, and the unending, pulsating pain that bounced from one corner of his brain to the next were all too real. And the words that dug into his head with every glance into the black bag. It didn’t make sense, but he sure as hell felt it.

Shakily, he recorded the random fragments. At one point, he snapped the pencil in half. He cried a bit at that point - he wasn’t ashamed to admit - the stone absorbing his tears immediately as they fell. Chuck was convinced it was feeding off of his agony.

Sure enough, at exactly the five and a half hour mark, Crowley once again materialized out of thin air. Chuck was head-deep in the velvet bag at the time, and the sudden presence in the room caused him to jump, the chains digging into his ankles.

“Tea?” Crowley offered, an amused expression on his face as he glanced at Chuck’s horror.

A porcelain cup of red tea appeared in front of Chuck. He grabbed it eagerly and shot it down, the boiling heat a relief from what was going through his head.

“Shall I see if I can grant you some good marks on this little assignment?” Crowley picked up the notepad with a pleased expression on his face. It immediately dropped. He squinted at Chuck before throwing the paper on the table, knocking the tea saucer over the edge. It crashed to the floor and shattered.

Chuck flinched. “Look, I don’t know what you expect me to do. What I saw… the words, they came in fragments. Once in a while I’d see a whole phrase, but most of the time it was just letters or…or… flashes of bits of things. Like this!” He grabbed the notepad and flipped back four or five pages. His shaky finger found its way to his modest attempt at drawing a carnation. Admittedly, it looked somewhere between a pile of spaghetti and a vagina.

“See? I saw this flower,” Chuck tried desperately. Crowley’s expression hardly changed. “I think this flower was in someone’s hands. I saw the flower then saw the word ‘there’. Maybe it’s… it’s talking about where you can find this type of flower. Maybe it’s rare and you can only find it in one part of the world and that could be important, right?”

Crowley sucked in air loudly. He seemed to hold it in his lungs for an eternity before saying something. “Well done, Chuck. You managed to make an already indecipherable text into something even less decipherable.” He sighed. “Oh well, it was worth a shot. Maybe I’ll hit up little Kevin Tran. He’s a bit more organized in the upstairs department than you. I’ll have to kill you first, of course. Can’t have two active prophets running around earth at once. No, having more than one person to work on an enormous project would just be far too logical.”

“Kill me?” Chuck panicked. The thought of that dog breathing in his ear caused him to reel in his chains. “I’ll… I’ll make it more organized! I promise! Please just… just give me more time. This is only the beginning. I have a feeling there’s so much more, but… but I need to make it make sense.”

The man in the black suit seemed to relax a bit. He smiled, that soulless, closed-mouth smile that made Chuck’s skin crawl. “This is why I like you, Chuck. You’re a people pleaser. Your whole life, everyone has called you a pushover. A doormat. But your need to bend the knee at the greatest authority figure in the room is your gift, Chuck. A more idiotic man would have told me to bugger off, I would have lost my cool, and he would have been a pile of dismembered limbs at this point.”

Crowley suddenly had a scotch glass in his hand. He swirled the ice around in it for a moment before lightly sniffing the liquor.

“Look at you. So obedient. Translating the Word of God in a six million dollar mansion on a beautiful mahogany dining room table, holding an audience with a genuine, living – well, not exactly living -, breathing king.”

Chuck blinked confusedly.

“Oh, bullocks. I hadn’t properly introduced myself, had I?”

Weakly, the fear of Crowley’s eerily calm demeanor rising in his chest, Chuck replied, “You’re Mr. Crowley. My literary agent.”

Crowley took a delicate sip of the Scotch. “Yes, I’m that. I’m many things. Literary agent, nuclear arms dealer, confidant to world leaders, lover, if you’re lucky.” He winked, sending a chill from the nape of Chuck’s neck to the base of his spine. “But what I really am is much, much greater.” There was a pregnant pause, as if Crowley was waiting for his cue.

Chuck obliged, “So who are you?”

“I’m Crowley. King of the Crossroads. Demon.” Tossing back his head, he finished the contents of his glass. “And I’m the only person keeping you, Chuck Shurley, alive.”


	11. Chapter 11

December 14, 2006 – Lawrence, KS

Mary tried to keep her eyes concentrated on the doctor’s, but couldn’t. She knew they were red and puffy, but not moist as they should be. Her focus wandered to a poster in the waiting room with instructions on how to wash hands. She wondered what type of person didn’t know how to wash their own hands.

“So we can conclude that there’s no brain damage,” was the most important thing that she caught.

Some internal bleeding. Broken collar bone. Broken ribs. She got it. All the medical mumbo jumbo surrounding the vital information was all well and good, but she just didn’t understand why she couldn’t be at her son’s bedside, making sure he was properly tucked in and his pillow soft enough. But not too soft. Dean liked his pillow firm enough so he didn’t sink in.

“It’s a miracle there wasn’t additional damage,” the doctor said, almost to himself. “Incidents like this, and the way he was thrown from the vehicle, usually result in…”

“Death,” Mary interrupted. She knew. She knew because not three hours earlier, she’d identified the corpse of her husband, whom she was told was securely buckled in. He just hit the steering wheel at the wrong angle. His brain had swollen and pressed against his skull. He was dead on arrival.

The doctor quietly apologized before saying, “I can take you to see Dean now.”

Mary nodded and followed the doctor into the recovery room. There was an IV in his arm and a tube down his throat. His face was blue and purple with greenish undertones. This wasn’t her son. Her son was full-faced with bright green eyes and a toothy smile. He laughed at dumb jokes and rolled his eyes but secretly smiled when she packed him a brown bag lunch to take to work.

Without a word, the doctor stepped away. It was at that moment that Mary noticed another man standing over her son’s bed. He was glancing down at Dean’s face, unblinking.

Mary stepped in. “Excuse me,” she said defensively.

The man looked up. Though his face had a neutral expression on it, his mouth seemed to turn down naturally, giving him a sorrowful look. His bright blue eyes shone at her. He said nothing.

“Who are you?” Mary asked, approaching the bed and placing a protective hand on Dean’s arm.

The man opened his mouth slowly as if he were unsure. “I’m the one-“ His voice was raspy like someone who hadn’t spoken in days, and he seemed surprised by the sound of it. “I’m the one who called 911.”

Mary relaxed a bit. Suddenly, she realized the road John had been driving down was one of the back service roads that went past old corn fields. No one went down there except to escape the morning traffic. It was far too early when the crash happened for most people to be on that road. She glanced at the man, his trench coat ill-fitting and blue tie backwards. He must’ve been some white collar drone, an accountant maybe, on his way to push papers for some ungrateful boss downtown way earlier than he should have been made to. The man had probably pulled up on a scene of horror and did what not many people would think to do. Dean was unconscious immediately after the crash and if he hadn’t gotten into an ambulance in time, he could have easily died from exposure.

“Thank you,” was all Mary could say as she circled the bed. She threw her arms around him and pulled him into an embrace. He twitched upon the initial contact, but otherwise didn’t move.

When Mary stepped back, he stared at her intently, his head cocked to one side like a dog curiously investigating something.

“I’m Mary. Dean’s mother and John’s-“ she stopped herself. “John’s wife. I have to know the name of the man who saved my son.”

He blinked a few times but said nothing.

Mary snorted a nervous laugh. “What’s your name?”

He continued to stare as if the question were perplexing and impossible to answer. “Castiel,” he said finally.

“Castiel,” Mary repeated the name. It was strange, yet the sound of it rolled off her tongue with ease. “How can I ever thank you? You saved my son’s life. You saved Dean.”

She smiled at him. Again, he seemed confused, his head cocking even further towards his shoulder. He then glanced down at Dean, his eyes transfixed on his face, unblinking.

“So I did,” he said.

******

April 23, 2010 – San Francisco, CA

The Prius pulled into the reserved parking space Sam paid $200 a month for. He knew it was a waste of money, but parking in the city was a chore, and he didn’t have the motivation to spend his life circling the block of his apartment building just so he could go home.

Sam stepped out of the car shakily. On the twenty minute drive from where the truck had turned over, they’d passed a burning school bus, a group of about thirty zombies, and a man hacking another man apart with an axe. The last one had made Ruby throw up in the backseat. Jess had handed her the wad of Dunkin Donuts napkins that were in the glove compartment.

The street was empty and dead quiet. Sam could see an empty plastic bag caught on a tree a few dozen yards away, but otherwise, there was no movement. Jess fumbled a bit with the keys before opening the lock to the front door. The apartment was in a brand new building, designed in the painfully San Francisco row house style, with freshly painted salmon-colored walls. They were paying an arm and a leg for the second-story, one bedroom with a kitchenette, but Jessica insisted they deserved it.

She had grown up poor, with a mom who worked nightshifts at a truck stop diner off the highway just fifty miles from Omaha, Nebraska, and a dad she hadn’t seen since she was three. She’d gone to Stanford on an immense scholarship and endless student loans, which they knew they’d be paying off until they were both gray, but Sam didn’t care. Jess wanted to live in her dream apartment until they could properly afford a house of their own, and then they’d live in a dream house and get a dog or two, followed by a couple of kids with sandy blonde hair and wide grins, taking the little tikes to baseball practice and piano lessons, school plays and family vacations to Mount Rushmore in the summer.  

That was the plan.

Reality at that moment didn’t think that was feasible.

Sam, Jess, and Ruby stood in the living room. Jess tried the lights, but the power seemed to be out.

“Now what do we do?” Jess asked no one in particular.

Sam picked up the phone on the wall, but there was nothing, not even static. He futilely tried to switch on the TV, but felt idiotic when he realized that if the lights wouldn’t go on, there was no reason to believe the TV would magically have power. Sam’s laptop did turn on, but the Wi-Fi was down.

“We should wait,” Ruby said after a few moments. “The government’ll send someone.”

No one responded. They all saw nothing remotely resembling any form of order, let alone the police or the National Guard or anybody in a uniform doing anything to try to put out that school bus, or contain that hoard, or stop that man from butchering another human being.

“We’re on our own.” Jess collapsed on the coach.

Sam followed and held her. She placed her head stiffly on to his chest and remained motionless as he rubbed her upper arm reassuringly.

Ruby sat herself down on the stool next to the kitchen counter. That was where Sam and Jess normally had their breakfast. Greek yogurt and oat cereal and a banana each. The small table close to the sliding door window was for less rushed sit down meals, whenever they had time to have those together. Usually Jess would get home at some odd hour in the middle of the night, too exhausted to eat anything other than a cold sandwich. Sam would more often than not eat dinner at the office if he had time, stuck there filing that or typing up this. When he got home, he’d collapse on the couch and snooze until Jess lightly tapped him on the shoulder and dragged him to bed. He couldn’t even remember the last time they had dinner together at that table.

“We can’t just sit here,” Jess said defiantly, suddenly shooting up. “The world has gone to shit and we’re just sitting on our asses.”

“What are we supposed to do?” Ruby asked meekly. “I can’t get a hold of anyone I know. The power’s out, it’s dark in here, and there are monsters out there trying to rip us to shreds.”

Jessica approached Ruby. She was quite a bit taller than the other woman, and with Ruby slightly seated on the stool, Jess towered over her.

“And you’re just going to sit here and whine about it?” Jess taunted.

Sam immediately stood up. Jessica, his sweet, intelligent, and caring wife, had never snapped at anyone like this. Not for a second. Not even when a professor in college had told her she should avoid becoming an ER doctor because women didn’t have the “right disposition” for it.

“Whoa whoa,” Sam said, putting a hand on Jess’s shoulder. “Let’s all just sit down and relax.”

Jess whipped around quickly, her hair swishing slightly. She shot a sad smile up at Sam before putting her arms around his waist and burying her face in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muffled. She let Sam go and glanced over her shoulder at Ruby. “I’m sorry, Ruby. I’m just… I’m just so scared. There’s no explanation for what’s going on here. You’re right. Where is the government in this? Where are the police or the army or something? We have to think rationally here.” Without missing a beat, she headed for the kitchen and opened the fridge. “The power’s out and I have a feeling it’s not going back on any time soon. Most of this food is going to go bad.”

She opened up a plastic container of Greek yogurt and grabbed a spoon out of the drawer. She shoved the spoon into the container and brought out a large scoop of yogurt before bringing it to her face. Wordlessly, she ate. Sam and Ruby stared at her.

The spoon made a scraping sound at the bottom of the container. Sam then heard the rustling of a plastic bag as Jessica chucked the remains.

By now, the sun was completely gone. Sam’s eyes had adjusted to the whisper of moonlight that shone in, but for the most part, it was difficult to see. He could, however, tell that Ruby was sitting on the stool, shivering. He could tell that he was shivering himself.

The clang of metal against metal brought Sam back to his senses as Jess had thrown the spoon into the sink.

“Jessica,” Sam said softly, coming up to her. “We do need to think rationally, but I don’t think now’s the time to be eating everything in the fridge.”

He reached out to her, but she just leaned forward and placed her hands flat on the counter top separating the kitchen from the living room.

“You’re right,” she said. “We need to conserve food and water. We have some canned stuff in the pantry that’ll last forever, and tons of bottled water, but…”

She trailed off. Even in the dark, Sam could see her gaze focus on Ruby ahead of her.

The other woman’s head was down. She pushed a strand of long, brown hair behind her ear nervously, as if bringing her hand closer to her face would protect her from the way Jessica was looking at her.

“We don’t have an infinite amount of food and water,” Jessica stated bluntly.

It didn’t take long for Sam to put two and two together. “Hold on,” he said, looking back and forth between the suddenly aggressive figure of his wife and the cowering mass of the woman he didn’t know. “Whatever this is, however bad it gets, we need to stick together. We need each other to survive.”

Jessica didn’t break away from Ruby. “Do we? I’m a doctor, and an ER doctor at that. I have years of training in dealing with crises. Sam, you’re smarter than any man I’ve ever met. You can problem solve and think fast. You may have the demeanor of a lost puppy, but you’re tall and menacing enough to intimidate most.”

She walked slowly past Sam toward Ruby.

“What is it that you do, Ruby?” she asked.

Ruby audibly gulped. Shifting in her seat, she replied feebly, “I’m a third grade teacher.”

“A third grade teacher?” Jessica repeated. “So I guess you know, what? Basic first aid? A kid chokes on a crayon and you come running in with the Heimlich?”

Sam was frozen where he stood. This was beyond a general stress reaction coming from Jess. Something was severely wrong.

“Yeah,” Ruby admitted. “I… I can’t do much. I know. I can’t contribute like you can, but I… I can’t survive on my own. I don’t even have a car.”

Jess snorted. She didn’t seem perturbed anymore. Now she seemed amused.

“That’s right,” she replied. “You can’t survive on your own. Those things’ll rip you to shreds the moment they see you. We might as well just put you out of your misery now.”

Jessica lunged for Ruby. The stool and the women crashed straight to the carpeted floor. Sam rushed to his wife and grabbed her by the shoulders. He tried desperately to pull her off, but Jessica had a strength that Sam had never felt before. She pummeled Ruby’s face with her fists until Sam put an arm around her and pulled. She may have had sudden superhuman strength, but Sam was a good nine inches taller and 100 pounds heavier. He tackled her to the ground. It didn’t take him long to realize her mouth was covered in blood.

Sam now had Jessica pinned to the ground. She spat at him, blood splattering all over his face and into his mouth. Her eyes were bloodshot and wild like a rabid dog’s. Sam swallowed hard, tasting iron.

“Jess!” Sam pleaded as she writhed underneath him, her fingers ripping the arm of his shirt and digging into his skin. “Stop! We’ll get you help! Just… stop! Stop!”

He wanted to sob. He wanted to hold Jess close to him and have her kiss him lightly on the cheek and sob. The creature beneath him wasn’t his wife. It snapped its jaws and spat up blood and bubbling saliva, making a wretched noise from deep within its throat. He had known something was off about Jess from the moment they were reunited. She had been infected with whatever this was all along. It was only a matter of time.

“Sam!” Ruby’s voice called from behind him. “Oh god! Sam, we have to run!”

Except he couldn’t. If he got up, the thing that had once been his wife would get up too.

Sam continued to press down on her, his left forearm now over her collar bone, his right over her sternum. She whipped her head back and forth, trying to bite down on his arm, but missing by barely an inch. He had his left leg keeping her lower half immobile, though he knew he couldn’t hold her for long as her legs were slipping from under his with every spasm. Her nails dug deeper and deeper into his flesh, and he could feel warm blood dripping down his arms.

He moved his left arm up towards her jaw. The range of motion on her snapping was now limited as her forearm was primarily over her neck.

“You have to do it, Sam,” Ruby’s voice quivered.

Sam pressed down harder. The vocal retching became shorter and shallower. Jessica’s skin turned a pale blue.

Something snapped against his arm.

Warm blood pooled out around her head. Sam could feel it on his left arm.

He remained there for a few moments. Ruby said nothing. 


	12. Chapter 12

July 8, 2008 - Lawrence, KS

“Asshole.”

Her friends dragged her away, their hands possessively clutching the backs of her arms. It was the end of an era. Rhonda had shown up at Dean’s usual watering hole on a Friday night, on pay day no less, expecting… what? Same old, same old. She stood with one hand on her narrow hips, the other hand compulsively throwing back her long hair. She should have known. Dean inebriated, batting those long lashes over his green eyes at some brown-haired, mocha skin waitress with a tight rear and a lip piercing.

Castiel was at the booth on the opposite side of the bar, listening to the whole confrontation. The place was busy enough that the buzz of other conversations around him was a bit distracting, but he managed to focus on the one going on at the bar. Rhonda threw a “how could you” and Dean volleyed with a “not like you care” until the garrison of female friends showed up and saved her from further insult. Meanwhile, the brown-haired waitress had retreated to the kitchen, smiling a bit as she walked past the bartender.

“Should I tell him I’m a lesbian?” she asked the middle age man with a goatee. Cas had known that fact from the moment Dean started talking to her, but he assumed Dean wasn’t drunk enough to miss the blaring signs, mainly how the woman kept mentioning her girlfriend in conversation.

“Let’s bounce.” Dean was now looming over Cas, wobbling as he tried to maintain his composure.

Cas immediately stood.

They walked wordlessly a quarter of a mile down the old country road. The parking lot in front of the bar had been full, so Dean had to park his pickup that far away. There’d been a baseball game on the bar TV or a wedding or a five-year-old’s birthday party. Castiel wasn’t sure which it was. Humans celebrated silly things for silly reasons, drank themselves silly and said silly things to each other.

And he loved every minute of it. He loved to sit back and hold a glass bottle of beer - for appearances as the alcohol did nothing for him - watching as their lives played out in front of him. In an instant, Castiel could see their births and deaths, their joys and sorrows, just from how they laughed and cried and yelled and danced in bars. He knew a good person from a morally ambiguous person from a bad person, and everything else in between.

That was how he got to know Dean. The man was notoriously tight-lipped about his feelings, but Castiel could read him like a book. Dean coasted by on his good-looks, charming to the ladies, and delicate enough that most men didn’t find him threatening. But Cas knew Dean was insecure by the way he sat at the bar, guarding his drink like someone would snatch it out of his hands.

He constantly sought approval. When he didn’t get it, he got angry. The more he drank, the less secure he got, the more he sought approval, and the more his aggressive tendencies reared their ugly head.

But Dean was also kind and gentle. The few times Rhonda had gone with him to the bar, he’d kept his alcohol intake to a minimum, his eyes fixed on her face as she talked. He was a classic case of ADD when it came to most other people, but his attention never wandered when she spoke, even if it was the most tedious conversation Castiel had ever heard.

They made it to the pickup after Dean stumbled three or four times, swatting at mosquitos as they went. Castiel grabbed him on the last fall and propped him against the side of the truck.

“You’re not fit to drive,” he said, stating a fact. He reached into Dean’s jeans pocket and, with some effort, pulled out the car keys.

Dean’s eyes were half open, a bit of drool in the left corner of his mouth. He smelled like whiskey and women’s perfume, which was apparently supposed to smell like roses, but in reality smelled like some chemical with a six-syllable name.

Cas stared at Dean’s mouth, admiring how easily humans lost their basic motor functions under the influence. Dean’s mouth was fascinating. Suddenly, it curled into a smile.

“What’re you gawkin’ at?” Dean murmured.

Castiel told the truth when he could. Rambled when the truth needed to be concealed. “I was admiring your mouth. Did you know there are 43 muscles in the human face? Your scientists haven’t exactly pinned down how many it takes to smile, but I suspect-”

Dean turned and hoisted himself up the side of the vehicle and on to the truck bed. “Let’s sleep here tonight. It’s warm enough.”

Moving to the back, Castiel used the tailgate to get himself up. Dean was already lying on his back, staring up at the cloudless night. Cas followed his gaze, a pang of nostalgia hitting his stomach. Ignoring it, he sat down on the bed of the truck next to Dean.

“Hey,” Dean said, the back of his hand lazily flopping about, brushing against the knee of Cas’s suit slacks. “Why were you starin’ at my mouth, huh?”

Though it was nearly pitch black outside on that road, surrounded by corn fields and sparse trees, Dean squinted as if it were high noon and the sun were paying him a house call. His face was pinched and sweaty, his body obviously unable to deal with processing the alcohol and the summer’s heat, even at this hour.

“I… I don’t know,” Cas lied.

Dean propped himself up on one elbow and his head accidentally butted Cas’s knee.  The light touch from before hadn’t done much. Dean had put a hand on his shoulder and even ruffled his hair once or twice before. But the impact of his forehead against his leg sent a jolt through Cas’s very core.

The angel Castiel had fought demons and all manner of evil, he’d protected mankind from the wrath of vengeful angels, he’d done so many things Dean could never even fathom, all without flinching, but this... This was new.

“Cas.” Dean’s face seemed to relax, his eyes focusing for a moment to look up at his friend’s. “Level with me. Who are you? Really?” His eyes fell on Cas’s mouth. “Do you have any hobbies? Are you married? Kids?” He sighed. Cas could taste the whiskey in his own mouth.

“Dude,” Dean continued, “I don’t even know your last name.”

Castiel remained still and silent. Dean was now sitting up. The smell of whiskey grew stronger and stronger and was soon mixed with the scent of perspiration.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Dean conceded. His left hand was now firmly on Cas’s knee, moving up and down with moderate pressure. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I just… I just wanna know who you are. I wanna be close.”

Cas felt heat and moisture on his jawline heading toward his mouth. It was strange. 

The hand began to move up his thigh. He flinched and threw his torso back a few inches until he hit the cabin of the truck. He felt a squeeze and blood rushing through his vessel.

“Why don’t you love me anymore?” Dean murmured close to Castiel’s ear.

Cas’s eyebrows furrowed and he stared down at Dean. “I-“

“Rhonda,” Dean moaned, his face buried in Cas’s neck. “Rhonda. Rhonda, why? Why did you leave me?”

Tears. Castiel felt tears on his neck and on the collar of his dress shirt.

“I’m not Rhonda,” Castiel stated.

Of course. Dean had reached the point in his intoxication where he thought any warm body was his now ex-girlfriend.

Dean eased his grip off Castiel’s leg and sobbed. Cas patted him on the back of his shoulder, his cheek resting on the top of Dean’s head.

******

April 23, 2010 – Sioux Falls, SD

“Don’t just stand there, boy,” the gruff old man spat. “Help me out here!”

He had his hands under Castiel’s shoulders and bucked his head, motioning towards the feet. He’d nearly thrown the pot full of baked beans down on a stack of books upon seeing Castiel out cold. The beer had made itself more gently on to a clear part of a desk.

Dean’s stomach suddenly churned. He felt sick. Not from the thought that, just a few moments ago, he’d been sitting on his living room couch with his mother – or Satan, whoever – talking about sending him straight to heaven, and now he was in some strange house with his best friend passed out on the few square feet of floor space this overcrowded study allowed, and a man in a trucker hat barking orders at him. No. His stomach felt physically ill. Probably from that Baconator earlier.

“Listen,” the man said in an exasperated tone. “I know you don’t know me from Adam, and you ain’t got no reason to trust me here, but I need you to help me get him to the couch.”

Dean blinked and said nothing as he made his way to Castiel’s feet and grabbed his ankles. The man lifted the shoulders and they brought the unconscious drifter to a dusty looking couch by a foggy window covered in strange, geometric shapes. Dean tucked that tidbit away with all the other fucked up shit that had happened to him in the last ten minutes or so.

Once Castiel’s head hit the cushion, the man rushed to a desk drawer and brought out a small glass vile. He removed the cork with his teeth and held the open vile under Castiel’s nose. Smelling salts, Dean figured, though he’d only really seen them in movies. With a gasp, Cas’s eyes fluttered open.

“Dean!” he blurted and tried to sit himself up.

“Hold your horses there,” the old man ordered, gently holding Cas down with his hand. “It’ll be a while before ya get your strength back after teleporting like that.”

Teleporting. Dean let that word roll around his head for a bit, unable to process it as a real life thing that just happened.

Castiel blinked rapidly, staring up at the other man. He grabbed the man’s overly worn plaid flannel shirt, trying to sit himself up.

“Bobby,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Lucifer has entered his vessel. Mary Winchester said yes.”

The man Castiel had called Bobby stood stalk still. The room was silent for a solid ten seconds. In the meantime, Dean approached the couch and eyed the scene in front of him. A friend he’d known for over three years had teleported not once, but twice before his very eyes. The second time included Dean himself, going all _Quantum Leap_ into some dingy, eccentric hoarder’s study. On top of that, apparently his very own mother, the woman who had given birth to him, raised him, held his hand as she walked him to the doors of the school on his first day of kindergarten, was now Lucifer, also known as the Prince of Darkness, also known as Satan, also known as the Devil.

“What the fuck is going on?”

Both Castiel and Bobby immediately turned their attention to Dean. With Bobby’s help, Cas got to his feet and on rubbery legs made his way to Dean.

Dean backed up. “Get the fuck away from me, Scottie. No more beaming me up to the mothership.”

Stopping, a hurt expression slapped on his face, Castiel responded, “We’re not on a ship, Dean. This is Bobby’s house in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.”

Dean rubbed his brow. “Sioux Falls… Nope. Nope. I’ve had some wild blackouts and woken up in some places far out of Lawrence with nothing but the shirt on my back and an empty whiskey bottle, but nothing like this, not this far out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.”

“I’m Bobby Singer, by the way,” the old man interjected gruffly, returning to the beer he’d carefully left on the desk. “Nice to meet you.”

Castiel seemed to ignore him. “I’m an angel. We’re able to transport objects across space and, with the right amount of energy, time. These objects can include people. Distance is not of import.”

“Oh,” Dean replied. “OK, that makes sense. Thanks for clarifying. I can die in peace knowing that hunking slab of bullshit.”

Castiel gave Dean a look, that patented confused blink Castiel always gave Dean when sarcasm popped up on conversation.

Castiel’s naiveté never ceased to amaze him. Dean remembered the first time they went drinking together. Dean initially suspected Cas had never taken a sip of alcohol in his life, considering he spent the first ten minutes of their bender staring at the menu, questioning the significance of the various cocktail names. But the way Castiel threw them back, seemingly unfazed by the fact that he was consuming half his weight in liquor, Dean wondered if Cas was part beer keg. By Jack Bottle Five, with Dean having downed about half a bottle, the only sign of drunkenness Cas had shown was his inability to stop staring at Dean. When Dean smiled and explicitly told him he favored the pussy but was flattered by the sentiment, Cas seemed more confused than ever and just continued staring.

“Maybe you should let me handle the explainin’ part, Cas,” Bobby jumped in. Castiel plopped himself down on the couch, exasperated.

Dean snorted. “So he’s an angel and what are you?” He pointed at Bobby’s mostly grey beard. “Redneck Santa?”

Jaw clenched, Bobby replied, “Still see you got a smart mouth.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to look perplexed. “Do I know you?”

“Not exactly,” Bobby said, heading towards the desk in front of a massive bookshelf. He picked up a paperback book and tossed it to Dean. The cover had a color illustration of two male model types, plaid shirts unbuttoned, posing with super-human, impossible abs and pecs in front of a mirror. The mirror had a reflection of one of the men in it along with the figure of a woman with creepy eyes. The text read _Supernatural: Bloody Mary by Carver Edlund_.

Dean gave Bobby a suspicious look. “You have the same taste in bathroom reading material as most fourteen-year-old girls. Congratulations.”

“You ever read ‘em?” Bobby said, probably ignoring Dean’s insult.

“Can’t say that I have,” Dean answered. “Too busy having sex with chicks.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “You heard of Donovon Windcaster?”

Dean shrugged, vaguely remembering the name coming out of some brunette’s mouth as he was trying to schmooze his way into her pants at a bar.

“Hate to break it to you, boy,” Bobby said, “but that’s you. And Slate? He’s your brother, Sam.”

Dean flinched. “How do you know I have a brother named Sam?”

Castiel stood again. “Because I told him. I told him everything. About the prophecy, the end of the world, who you and Sam were really meant to be.” He wobbled a bit, still unsteady on his feet. He began to trail off, “You used to save people, hunt things. Bad things. Evil things. Things that hurt people. You and Sam were…”

“Hunters,” Bobby interrupted, helping Cas back down on the couch. “That’s what we’re all called, us folk who hunt down the things that say boo, the things that go bump in the night, the things that’ll rip your head off and suck in your innards like Jell-O pudding. I know this is gonna sound eight shades of crazy, but things like ghosts and vampires and werewolves and all that, that’s all real. And they’re as mean and nasty as you’d think.”

Bobby returned to the desk and lifted a dusty, old, leather-bound tome. He flipped through it for a moment until he landed on the right page and shoved it towards Dean.

“That, right there.” Bobby pointed at the page with a meaty hook. “That’s a wendigo. You ain’t probably heard of it, but this here’s a sunnuvabitch with a hunger for human flesh. Killed a young couple out west a spell last week. I managed to hunt ‘im down and gank ‘im.”

“They’re getting bolder,” Castiel added. “They don’t usually take multiple casualties. The monsters are affected by the apocalypse.”

“One thing at a time, Cas,” Bobby hissed. “Poor boy just found out we humans ain’t the top of the food chain.”

Dean stared down at the illustration of the creature or whatever that thing was called. It was sketchy, with long black arms shaded in dark with pencil. It looked like something you’d find at a road stop tourist shop on some as-advertised authentic, Native American blanket. Something hippies bought to show they could commune with nature. Or rather, that they could get high on peyote and talk to trees.

“So, um,” Dean said quietly, placing the book gently back into Bobby’s hands. “My mom is…uh… fucking Lucifer Prince of Darkness because of flesh eating Winnebagos or whatever the fuck this stick figure is supposed to be?”

Castiel’s jaw visibly clenched. “It wasn’t supposed to be your mother. It was supposed to be Sam. Sam’s the true vessel of the angel cast from heaven.” Castiel rubbed his temples with his fingers. “And it’s pronounced wendigo, not Winnebago.”

That was it. Dean had had it. He lunged at Castiel on the couch, his hands tight in fists.  His tackling ability may have slowed since his glory days in high school, but he was still one of the best he knew. Castiel was caught off guard, and probably slowed from whatever malady had taken over him in the last few minutes, otherwise Dean knew he probably would’ve found a way to get off the couch. All Dean would’ve had was a fist full of couch cushion and dissatisfied rage to show for it.

Instead, Castiel’s face was full of shock as he remained almost motionless. Dean straddled him. Cas’s hands flew defensively in front of his face. Dean grabbed his wrists, pressed them down on Cas’s chest, and shook him.

“What the fuck did you do to my mother? What the fuck?!” Dean screamed in Castiel’s face, almost incoherently.

Dean felt arms around his shoulders, Bobby’s arms, trying to pull him off, but Dean was in berserk mode. He threw his head back and smacked Bobby right in the nose. The older man loosened his grip and fell back on to the floor.

“Dean!” Cas finally screamed back and Dean suddenly found himself flung on the floor. His head just barely missed a wooden chair.

Castiel was standing over him. His eyes glowed that iridescent blue Dean had seen before. But this time, a shadow began to form behind him, long and jettisoning from Cas’s shoulders. The shadow split into two and began to take on a shape like crow’s wings.

“Do not lay a hand on me, human,” Cas ordered, his voice seeming to echo off the bookshelves of the study. “Even in this weakened state, I am infinitely more powerful than you can even imagine.”

Dean cowered, unable to keep his eyes off Cas’s inhuman gaze.

“Cas?”

The blue in his eyes began to fade. The shadows dispersed into nothing and Cas simply stood there, looking haggard and exhausted, yes, but otherwise his normal self.

“I…” he started, then reached out a hand towards Dean.

Dean accepted it and stood.

Their eyes met and Dean saw the coldness dissipate from Cas. He was his friend. More than his friend. His confidant, the man he’d confessed more to than any other human being alive. He’d been closer than any girl he’d ever been with, closer than his own parents, closer than his own brother. Castiel was the one who never judged him for a second, even when he drank himself to sleep, or hooked up with someone he knew he shouldn’t be hooking up with, or picked fights with total strangers for looking at him funny. Castiel was always there with that blue-eyed, innocent, sympathetic gaze.

At that moment, it was that very gaze that had Dean engrossed, yet again.

“Dean.” Cas’ s voice was hardly above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Dean wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. Was he sorry that Mom was Satan? Was he sorry that he insisted it should have been Dean’s little brother? Was he sorry that Dean was suddenly thrust into a world where all his childhood fears were real? Was he sorry for displaying his angelic fury and scaring the shit out of Dean?

“I know, Cas,” Dean replied. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to add the Castiel/Dean Winchester tag because, yes, there it is.


	13. Chapter 13

June 30, 1992 – Tucumcari, NM

“A wall?”

“A wall.”

“A wall?”

“A wall.”

“A wall?”

“Alright, boys,” John said, glancing at his sons sitting in the backseat of the Dodge Caravan. “That’s enough. Let your mother sleep.”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean said in an overly nasal voice.

John saw Sam’s reflection in the rearview mirror. The boy was pouting.

They were on their way to the Grand Canyon. John thought it right to take the boys on good long road trips to experience the various sights and sounds and flavors of the country. Last year was Mount Rushmore. The year before was Niagara Falls. Next year he was thinking about Gettysburg. He knew Sam would love that one. The boy had a head for history, remembering people and dates better than anyone he knew.

Every year, they’d go on a road trip, see the sights, then spend a week camping. That was the part Dean excelled at. Despite Dean’s inability to sit still for more than ten seconds under normal circumstances, he was a master of patience when it came to hunting and fishing. Dean could stare intently at a bobbing fishing line for a good ten minutes, not moving, barely breathing. John’d tell him to reel it in, but Dean woudln’t budge until the moment was just right. He usually had the biggest catch of the day.

“No.”

Mary was stirring in the passenger’s seat next to him, curled up with her face towards John’s. She’d been driving for the last four hours, and John had thought it best to let her take a nap during his whole shift. While she had certainly drifted off into slumber, John could tell she wasn’t restful. Her face was scrunched, like she was struggling to lift something heavy.  Every once in a while, her lips would move, trying to say something, but no sound would come out.

Mary was always a restless sleeper. On some nights, John would find her wandering the halls of their house, or sitting on the couch watching some infomercial for pet stain removal. He’d try to get her back to bed, and she’d always promise to be only a few more minutes, but John would often wake the next morning to find her half asleep on the couch. One time, she’d wandered out in the backyard and sat in the green plastic lawn chair overlooking the boys’ swing set. She was just staring at the swings, her eyes blank.

John reached over and placed a comforting hand over Mary’s. “It’s alright, Mary. It’s alright, sweetheart.”

Mary continued to mumble. “No, no, stay back.”

Dean popped his head between the two front seats. “Is Mom OK?” There was a quiver of concern in his voice.

“Sit back and buckle up,” John ordered.

Suddenly, Mary’s body spasmed. She threw her head back against the headrest, her legs shooting straight out in front of her. She wrenched her hand away from John’s grasp and dug her nails into the fabric of the seat.

She continued to babble, louder, and in a voice John hardly recognized, “The blood! Let him in. The blood! Yes, yes…”

“Mommy!” Sam sobbed in the backseat.

John quickly pulled over to the shoulder of the highway. Just before he hit the brakes, Dean had unlocked the sliding back door and flung himself out.

“Mom!” he cried and rushed to the front of the van, opening her door.

“Don’t touch your mother, Dean!” John ordered. “She’s having a seizure!”

He could only guess. He’d seen seizures before. Men in his platoon who’d lost too much blood, or had malaria, or dehydration. But they never spoke. They clenched their jaws and became as stiff as a board, but they never said a word.

“The vessel! Spare the child! The child! Spare the child!” she screamed. Her eyes were now open.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a car approaching.

“Dean, flag that car down. Now!” he shouted. The boy obeyed, running and waving his arms.

John wanted desperately to grab her, hold her and calm her, tell her that whatever it was she was seeing was all just a horrible nightmare and none of it was real. She was having a seizure. It had to be that. They’d get her to a doctor and he’d tell them she was just overtired and prescribe her some nice bed rest and all of this would stop. The nightmares would stop. Mary could find peace in sleep.

She was staring at him now, her body turned toward him. Her eyes were blank. Her face relaxed. She leaned in close to John, her nose only a few inches from his.

“We are the vessels, John,” she said quietly and calmly.

John said nothing.

She slumped down into the seat. She was unconscious.

******

April 23, 2010 – Los Angeles, CA

There was a giant, antique German cuckoo clock on the wall across from the mahogany table. It had been a gift from Angela Merkel, who had attended the premiere of the last _Supernatural_ film, _Scarecrow_ , in Berlin. The chancellor turned out to be a big fan. Chuck, admittedly, had no idea who she was. When she entered the green room before he was slated to appear on a popular German morning show, Chuck had furrowed his brow and asked his body guards to escort the most powerful woman in Europe back outside with the other crazed middle-age women.

It must have been noon by then, judging by the strength of the sun coming through the enormous, floor-to-ceiling windows. Chuck could hear the wooden clock people exit the ornate door, spinning around a bird.

“Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” he heard above some traditional German folk song. The sound burned a hole through his skull. Luckily, the clock fell from the wall and smashed into pieces. One of the round clock people’s heads rolled across the floor to Chuck’s feet.

“Oops, my mistake,” Crowley said, lowering his hand. “Oh well. The most annoying clock in the world rings in the new age and, of course, I interrupt it.”

He was seated in a leather chair across the room, thumbing through a copy of _Us Weekly_ , snickering to himself occasionally. All the while, Chuck had been at the table, trying desperately to make heads or tails of the so-called God Tablet sitting in front of him. In the early 20 hours since he’d woken up with his literary agent threatening to drag his soul down to the fiery pits of hell, Chuck had managed to translate about two whole sentences from the damn thing.

Crowley was now standing next to him, reading the scribbly notepad over his shoulder. Chuck looked up at him with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. The king, as Crowley had introduced himself, had said a few words would bring Chuck a cup of tea. Two sentences would unshackle him from the floor and grant him a five minute stretch. All Chuck wanted was the lie his head on his goose down pillow and wake up from this horrible, throbbing nightmare.

“Now we’re making progress,” Crowley cooed. He cleared his throat and read. “ _See the world lying in ruins_. Excellent. Excellent. We know that bit. _Called for war and wanted power_.”

Chuck rubbed his eyes. “What does it mean?”

The king’s eyes narrowed at Chuck. “Obviously it’s the plot of the feel-good family flick of the summer,” Crowley snapped before returning his attention to the words on the page. “No, it seems to be some historical account of a past war. Perhaps that nasty skirmish we had in Mesopotamia.” Crowley looked up for a moment and gazed off at nothing, a twinkle of nostalgia in his eye. “Bloody mess that was. Best time of my life.”

Chuck shifted in his seat, which caused his shackles to clink together. Just then, Crowley snapped his fingers and the chains fell, giving Chuck sweet, precious circulation back into his feet. Standing slowly, Chuck could feel every joint in his body creak and crack. He wasn’t as young as he used to be.

As soon as he regained full movement of his limbs, he made his way toward the kitchen and started a pot of coffee.

“So what is all this ringing in a new age, see the world in ruin stuff?” Chuck asked, surprising himself by how nonchalant he sounded.

Crowley returned the notebook to the table and sipped his scotch. “Like it says on the tin. Essentially, this is where all your pathetic little _homo sapien_ lives are meant to end and the age of chaos is meant to begin. April 23, 2010. Armageddon. Not nearly as bad as the Michael Bay film, thank all that is unholy.” He threw back what remained in the glass and made his way to the liquor cabinet for another.

“Huh,” Chuck responded, reaching in the kitchen cabinet above the coffee pot for a mug. He pulled out one he’d gotten as part of a set, clay, hand-made by villagers in the Ural Mountains who probably made fifteen cents off of it. Chuck had paid $100.

Upon pouring himself a cup of coffee, Chuck returned to the table. Crowley immediately topped off the mug with a shot of scotch.

“Breakfast of champions,” the king said with a wink. “Or dinner. Whatever it is, it could very well be the last thing you throw down your gullet, so drink and be merry.”

Chuck sipped it gingerly. “Right, right, you’ll drag me to hell if I don’t do your bidding.”

Crowley’s eyes flared. Again, Chuck could have sworn he saw them turn completely red, pupils and all.

“I don’t appreciate your tone,” the self-proclaimed demon said. “Though I don’t blame you for being a bit punchy. Can’t imagine how hard it is to sit on your bum and read one of the most divine documents in all of creation. It’s a good day to not be Chuck Shurley.” He flicked his wrist and a chair moved on its own. “Have a seat. It’s story time, kiddies.”

Begrudgingly, Chuck returned to the chair-shaped prison he’d been shackled to for the night. His shoulders were naturally very stiff, and sitting for long hours, hunched over a laptop, writing for the past ten years hadn’t helped. Now that he was resigned to sticking his face in a black velvet bag for hours on end, painfully dissecting a piece of stone that burned words and images in his brain like a cattle prong, he was pretty sure his shoulders wouldn’t be the only thing his personal, on-call chiropractor would tell him to watch out for.

“In the beginning,” Crowley started, swirling the contents of his freshened glass, “God created the heavens and the earth blah blah rivers and lakes and blah blah beasts of the land blah horrible, torturous, burning, genitals-falling-off viral infections…”

Chuck eyed him.

“Oh, the Good Book always leaves that bit out,” Crowley clarified. “And on the seventh day he rested. Well, not exactly. On the seventh day, he created angels. Enormous, pounding, brilliant douchebags of energy and power. They did all the dirty work, really. The mountains, the trees, the Mariana Trench, the internet.”

Chuck perked up.

Without explaining the last bit, Crowley went on, “But when all the garden work was done, everything all majestic and awe-inspiring, G-man thought, ‘Hm, how can I royally fuck this up? I know! I’ll create resource-sucking, genocide-committing twats who’ll eat up and shit on everything I created whilst fucking each other over in the process.’ And he did. And it was anything but good.”

Chuck sipped his coffee, wishing Crowley had added a bit more scotch.

“Let’s just say that was none too pleasing to a few of the angels,” he went on. “There was a big spat. Doors slammed. Feelings hurt. Daddy up there had a hissy fit and cast out one angel and sent him packing down to my neighborhood. You’d know the little trouble-maker as Lucifer. Quite a big character in your last book, I heard. Though I wouldn’t know. There isn’t enough alcohol in the world to get me through your bloody prose.”

Nodding politely, Chuck responded with an, “Uh-huh.” But in his head, he was screaming.

“Anyway, Luci’s back.” Crowley looked down at the scotch glass and gently stroked it. “He’s having a bit of a conundrum pinning down his vessel, but damned if that bastard isn’t persistent.”

“Sam Winchester,” Chuck whispered.

Crowley looked up. “Ah, yes, well this is where it gets interesting. No, it’s not Sam Winchester. It’s his mother. You may have met her via a vision of yours, burning on the ceiling over the cradle of her youngest son.”

“I thought you didn’t read my books,” Chuck snorted. In all this ridiculousness, he pulled that out of what Crowley was saying. He briefly felt ashamed at how self-centered he was.

“I don’t, you Stephanie Meyer-wannabe,” Crowley snapped. “I know it was supposed to be the World’s Most Humanoid Moose Sam Winchester because I just happened to be in the know about the truth. How the world is supposed to be.”

Confusion overtook Chuck.

“This house, this life, this reality, none of this is what was supposed to happen.” Crowley gestured at the hundreds of thousands of dollars of décor and furniture around them. “You were never supposed to be best-selling author, height of American decadence Carver Edlund. No, you were supposed to be a C-rate hack, a recluse whose publishing deal went south. You were supposed to wake up one day, one of the many days you were contemplating finding a real job like VCR repair man or something idiotic like that, and finding Sam and Dean Winchester knocking at your door, demanding an answer as to how you knew about every little, excruciatingly tedious detail of their many cyclical and predictable adventures.”

“You mean,” Chuck finally found the courage to speak up, “I created an alternate universe in which Sam and Dean Winchester, and all those monsters and demons and angels are real?”

Crowley stared at him for a moment. He then, unexpectedly, burst into a hissing laugh. He pointed at Chuck, attempting to take another sip of his scotch, but apparently couldn’t without busting a gut.

“Your ego never ceases to amaze me!” Crowley managed to get out. “Who do you think you are? God? Created an alternate universe. That’s rich. You can hardly create a decent bowel movement from what I’ve heard. No, no, Chuck. You are merely a prophet. The only one, yes, but you’re nothing more than a witness of future events. Or rather, of sideways events.

“You see, something went horribly wrong. One day I was gearing up a good old fashioned crossroads deal. Big politician. Huge scandal. I would have made it all go away with a simple man-on-man kiss.” Crowley seemed to note Chuck’s confused expression. “That’s how we do things. Seal it with a kiss. You, of course, were too drunk to remember, to which I’m a tad offended. Anyway, his pen was about to touch paper when suddenly I was somewhere else. I found myself back in Hell, staring straight at the yellow eyes of one of the biggest dicks I’ve ever known, and believe me, I’ve known my share of dicks.”

He winked.

“I’d thought nothing of it. Sometimes we demons like to screw around with each other, though nabbing Tricky Dick’s soul would have been the prize of the century, quite literally. I thought maybe the yellow eyed cunt had transported me back to hell so one of his lackeys could steal it. I immediately returned to the surface to find Dick had been caught, and the shit had hit the proverbial fan. I had lost the deal.

“But there was something else horribly wrong. It was 1972, yet it wasn’t. It was different. I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time, but things felt off. The air smelt differently. The water reflected light in odd ways. The entrails weren’t as tasty.”

Crowley threw back his scotch and slammed the glass back down on the table and didn’t talk for a few moments. Chuck merely stared, afraid to move, afraid to blink. This was all entirely insane, yet Crowley seemed nothing short of sincere. Sure, he could move things with the flick of his wrist, and a large canine had appeared and disappeared in Chuck’s house, and a magical tablet was telling him messages only he could read, but this. This took the crazy cake and shoved it directly into his face.

“What was Nixon like in person?” Chuck asked helplessly, not sure exactly what to say.

Crowley seemed to return his focus to the story at hand. “Charmless and a liar, but somehow was on the path to heaven. Must have been all that civil rights rubbish. Rights for none, I say.

“Continuing on with this epic yarn, yes, everything had felt off. A few years had passed, nothing blaringly out of the ordinary. Then 1983 came and went, and I knew what it was. The prophecy of your predecessor was wrong. Mary Winchester was still alive. Her husband wasn’t off playing action man while neglecting his two boys by putting their tiny little arses in danger every other week. The Winchesters were cozy in their home, reading bed time stories to the kids and having Christmas dinners and making macaroni art. It was all so ordinary, I could have puked. I think I had puked at one point, right on Axel Rose. Not that that junkie noticed.”

He seemed to drift off in nostalgia before continuing on. “It seemed for a brief, blissful amount of time, the apocalypse would not happen as prophesized. Yet all my little birdies are returning to the nest with news that Lucifer’s cage had been opened last year and his vessel had been located, which means we are royally and painfully fucked.

“But this!” Crowley pointed a finger at the tablet sitting innocently in front of Chuck. “This is our out. This is what will set everything back the way it should be, it needs to be. The Winchesters will indeed swoop in and save us from our untimely demises and we will be back to our regularly schedule program. Sorry for the interruption, ladies and gentlemen.”

He shifted back, apparently satisfied with the way he recounted the tale. “So, any questions?”

“Yeah,” Chuck said. “Is that a woman behind you?”

Crowley whipped around. There stood a blonde woman in a nightgown, smiling.


	14. Chapter 14

December 14, 2006 – San Francisco, CA

Jess stood in the doorway and watched as her boyfriend tore stuff out from under the bed. He was on his belly, grabbing at loan documents from the bank and the receipt for his brand new Prius, dust bunnies floating silently across the scratched wood floor of their two-room apartment. She had offered to help, but he insisted it was a one-person job. Although, by the way he was flinging stuff in no particular order, she could tell he needed some assistance.

“Sammy,” she said gently. “Let me help.”

“I know it’s under here somewhere,” he said, ignoring her offer. “I mean, it’s so ridiculous that we need two forms of ID to board a domestic flight, right? I have my driver’s license. Isn’t that enough?”

It was a defense mechanism Jessica knew all too well. Distract from the issue. Sam was normally never shy about sharing his feelings. He had held her hand and sobbed when Frodo Baggins diminished and went to the West in _Return of the King_. He had told her about every professor who’d given him a hard time in his undergrad program because he came from a blue-collar family, the first person in his family to even go to college, and exactly how it made him feel unfit to be a lawyer.

Sam would only disguise his true emotions when he knew he would descend into a fit of panic.

The first time Jessica had seen it was when Sam’s brother Dean had broken his arm. There’d been a bar fight. Dean got stupid, instigated a fight, and some three hundred pound trucker had stepped on his forearm. Sam was in California at the time, but on the phone, he had offered gentle words of encouragement to his mother. When Dean got on the phone, Sam simply asked how he was feeling. He hung up soon after and turned his attention to trying to get one of the drawers in the kitchen unstuck. He spent about forty-five minutes working on it before grabbing his jacket and storming out the door.

Jessica knew the Winchester boys had a relationship that was both complicated and impeccably straight forward. She could relate. Her alcoholic mother was still her mother, and no amount of animosity could take that blood bond away. That part was simple. But she couldn’t look at the woman for more than fifteen seconds without thinking of all the ways she’d fucked up her childhood.

“Found it!” Sam exclaimed triumphantly, holding up the navy blue passport as he slid out from under the bed. “I knew it would be right near the copy of my birth certificate.” He jumped to his feet then started thumbing through the passport absentmindedly.

Jess approached cautiously. She knew he was simply trying to distract himself from the reality of the situation and one false move could send him into a downward spiral.

“I booked the flight for eight tomorrow morning,” Jess said. Keep the conversation neutral. Logical. “It was the earliest I could find. Your mom’s picking us up at the airport.”

Sam smiled. It was forced. “Thanks, Jess. You don’t have to come with me. I know you have work.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest. He was always so warm, and today he felt hot. His breathing was quicker than normal and his heart pounded against her face like a jack hammer. She looked up at him, craning her neck.

“Sammy,” she said gently. “Do you want to talk about this? If you don’t, I understand, but holding all this in…”

He was looking down at her, that smile still on his face like someone had taken a paint brush and speckled it on. Running his fingers through her blonde hair with one hand, he held her tighter with the other. She loved it when he stroked her hair. It was so cliché and shallow, but she couldn’t help but feel admired for her long, blonde locks. Sam was never the kind of man to admit he had a preference for any one type, but she knew he would love nothing more than to just lie with her in bed all day, talking about nothing and everything, his fingers tangled in her hair.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said plainly. “My dad’s dead. He died picking up my brother from jail.” He paused. The smile disappeared and there was nothing but sadness. He looked suddenly world-weary, his 24-year-old face becoming frail.

He let go of Jess and took a small step back.

“Dean killed Dad. And I’ll never forgive him.”

******

April 23, 2010 – San Francisco, CA

Jessica’s eyes were half open as if someone had taken a photo of her while she was in the middle of blinking. Her mouth was covered in blood, oxidizing quickly into a brownish ooze. It didn’t look natural. It looked thick and prematurely coagulated. But then again, Sam wasn’t sure what strangulation was supposed to look like exactly.

Sam stared at his hand, now covered in her blood. He pressed his pointer finger and thumb together. They stuck together briefly before he pulled them apart. It felt like gelatin, but warm. The edges of his vision began to blur and all he could focus on was his two fingers in front of his eyes. He could hear his pulse in his ears and suddenly his head was on the ground. He vaguely felt it hit the hard floor of his apartment, next to the corpse of his wife, but he almost didn’t register it until he felt two hands on his shoulder.

“Sam!” someone far away yelled.

No, not far away. She was right there in his left ear, shaking him.

“We have to go!” Ruby yelled with panic shaking her voice. “They’re outside. Oh god, there are a ton of them.” She continued to shake him. “Sam! Sam!”

Sam pushed himself up slowly. His legs were somewhat around Jessica’s waist as he’d collapsed awkwardly while on top of her. She still felt warm. He sat up and slid himself away from her body, the blood on his hands smearing across the floor. He stopped when he hit a wall. He forced himself to look at her, though the intense need to vomit was telling him to turn away as quickly as possible. Her face was turned away from him, but he could see her jaw and cheek, red and brown but nonetheless Jessica’s. Even in the dark he could see the colors smeared across her face and in her beautiful, golden blonde locks.

His wife was dead. He had killed her. He obliged his gag reflex and got sick.

Ruby flinched, but her panicked voice soon turned sad. “You had no other choice. You… you saved my life, Sam. She was going to kill me.”

Sam could hear glass crashing far away. Ruby had said something about someone being outside. He didn’t care who.

“Sam.” Ruby’s face was directly in front of his, her brown eyes soft. “We have to go. Is there another way out other than the front door?”

The crashing sounded louder and footsteps against a wooden floor pounded into his skull.

He shook his head. “No. No other way out.”

Ruby backed away from him and hugged her knees into her chest. She was mumbling something incoherent. Whatever calm she’d had moments before was now gone, engulfed in the horror of the situation.

The pressure of the wall against his back felt unbearable, like the wall was moving, pushing him closer and closer to the wife he knew, who laughed at the stupid Disney movies he loved to watch, who could say the names of all the bones in the human body without even blinking, who looked him in the eyes on their wedding day and just smiled the biggest, brightest smile Sam had ever-

“The drain,” Sam whispered.

Ruby perked up and crawled across the floor to him. “What?”

“The window,” Sam said, motioning toward the window. “There’s a drain from the eaves right outside. We’ll climb down.”

There was suddenly a loud thump against the door. Ruby and Sam both jumped.

Sam stood and pulled Ruby to her feet. She felt slightly limp in his hands, but managed to steady herself. He imagined he felt the same, but the sound of hands clawing at the fire-resistant door outside gave him a renewed strength.

He rushed to the window and peered out. Nothing. The coast was clear. The zombie people must have gathered around the front door and climbed up the stairs. They were all concentrated right outside his apartment door. Their best bet was the window.

Unlocking it, he ordered, “You go down first. You’re lighter. The drain could break under my weight.”

Ruby rushed to his side and helped him pull the window up and open. Sam popped out the screen and watched it fall to the ground. It made a faint springing noise when it hit the ground between his and the house next door, but nothing loud enough to draw attention.

Sam’s apartment was in a house in a row of about twenty others. The space between houses was narrow. Narrow enough that people could only walk through in single file. If the zombies were going to come through here, they’d have to go one at a time. Ruby could probably sprint away fast, and if need be, Sam could drop on them to slow them down.

He helped Ruby through the window. She grabbed for the drain pipe, then tried to immediately shove herself back into the apartment.

“I can’t,” she whimpered.

Sam put a hand on her shoulder, gently, but firmly. “We made it this far,” Sam said confidently, not sure where the words were coming from, let alone the strength to say them.

She nodded slightly and grabbed the drain. The aluminum yawned a bit under her weight, but held as she slid down. It was only two stories, but it seemed to take her forever. When her feet finally touched the ground, Sam heard the doorframe behind him crack.

“Run!” Sam whisper-yelled, desperately waving his hand out toward the backyard.

“Not without you!” Ruby replied.

Sam eyed the drain pipe. If it had complained under the weight of a rather thin woman of average height, he was sure his six-foot-four, 220 pound mass would tear it straight down.

He heard wood snap behind him and the inhuman sounds now clear as day. He whipped around and saw a face through the crack of the door, bloody and gnawing at the air. The deadlock was still holding it mostly shut, but he saw the doorframe struggling to keep it together. It wouldn’t be long.

His eyes traveled to the floor. Jessica. Her head in an unnatural position. He wondered what they would do with her, if anything, when he left.

His hands met the drain pipe. It was cold and awkward to grasp, but he managed to leverage himself well enough that he could swing one leg out. His foot found the aluminum siding. The pipe creaked. It was now or never. His other foot swung out and now his entire body was outside. He looked down briefly to see Ruby’s head craned up. She had her hands up in the air, like she would catch him if he fell. Logic told him there was no way she could, but he didn’t care. It was inexplicably comforting.

Carefully, he began his descent. The pipe bent outward, and Sam briefly wondered how much the landlord was going to charge him for damaging property. Knowing how Mr. Benton loved to charge triple the going rate for a decent handy man in San Francisco, he figured it was enough that Jessica and he would have to cancel their plans to fly to New York this summer.

Then he remembered what happened just minutes ago.

His fingers loosened up and he fell.

Not far. He had already made it down to about the first story in his day dream about apartment maintenance, but far enough that when he hit the ground, a pain shot up his shins, like someone had taken a sledge hammer to them. He cried out and collapsed to the bit of grass between the houses.

He remembered sixth grade gym class. The rope. He was a big guy as an adult, but as a kid, he’d been the runt of the class, with arms like two spaghetti noodles hanging by his sides. The teacher, Coach Graves, was a brute with a curly mullet. He reminded Sam of that hockey player Dean had a poster for on his bedroom wall. Coach had blown the whistle and Sam went straight up. Straight up about two feet before he lost his grip and went crashing down. He fell on straight legs. He thought he’d broken his legs and started sniffling back tears, but coach told him to walk it off. The entire class laughed at him.

He did. He walked it off - or more like he limped it off - all the way through the rest of school that day, as the kids in the hallway mock-sniffled when he went past. He walked it off on to the bus, and from the bus stop home. As soon as he’d opened the front door of the house, he started sobbing. At that point, his shins felt mostly fine. He just couldn’t control the tears. His backpack had been at his feet, one strap still in his hand, and he just stood there and cried.

Sam had noticed that Dean was at the top of the stairs by the front door. He was in his football jersey. It must have been varsity day or some other thing at the high school that Sam didn’t understand because he was just a dork with a concave chest and not even a whisper of facial hair on his chin.  

Sam hadn’t been sure how long Dean had been watching him. A minute probably. It had been long enough that he felt the need to come down. Sam had quickly wiped the tears away from his face and kept his head down. Dean had pummeled his pussy ass for less.

But not this time. Sam had felt arms around him. He heard the words softly in his ear.

“Walk it off, Sammy.”

That was what he did.

He immediately stood and grabbed Ruby’s arm.

“Run!” he repeated his order.

They sprinted across the lawn and towards a main street. There was no point in trying to get to the front of the house where his car was. He realized he didn’t even have the keys on him anyway. He didn’t have his wallet. His phone. He had nothing.

So they just ran. He could hear moans and heavy breathing coming from a few yards behind them. Ruby was lagging, panting, trying to keep up with Sam’s unusually long legs.

“Wait!” Ruby cried desperately.

Sam slowed a bit, but didn’t stop.

They kept running. 


	15. Chapter 15

June 19, 1973 – Lawrence, KS

“Shit,” Mary hissed so only she could hear. And her expletive was apt. She was crouched behind a dumpster and stepped in what could possibly have been dog poo. She felt it slip under her left kitten heel. Another pair of shoes ruined. Not that she preoccupied herself with shoes and pretty things normally. She just wanted to look nice for her date. Couldn’t blame a girl for caring about her appearance from time to time.

She undid her wrap dress slightly and pulled out an eight inch long blade hanging from the strap her mom had sewn in for that very purpose. It was light-weight and easily portable, perfect for the girl on the go, she thought. Smiling slightly at her internal sense of humor, she unhooked the weapon and held it in her right hand. The dagger may have been tiny by typical hunter standards, but it sure was sharp for those quick and easy decapitations.

The dumpster she was crouched behind was in the parking lot by the elementary school, the very same school she went to as a kid.  There was a blind spot in the parking lot spotlights that allowed for perfect cover for giving the old baddies a jump. They seemed to love to hang around elementary schools, or basically anywhere there were throngs of plump, corn-fed Midwestern kids. Her dad taught her that before she could write cursive.

Tonight was a rougarou. Standard, stupid, snarling beasties with a hunger for anything meaty. Humans at one point, but any sliver of humanity had left them with the first taste of human flesh. They usually came out in the spring when the cows on the farms surrounding Lawrence were giving birth. They seemed to like fresh veal as well.

Something stirred in the shadows. She could see a figure approaching, running under one of the streetlights and disappearing into the dark. It wasn’t too far past sunset, but it had been cloudy all day so the night was as black as hell. Mary was glad the rougarou had shown up now. It meant she’d be done just in time to catch the 10 PM showing of _American Graffiti_.  Her date had wanted to see _The Exorcist_ , but she hated that kind of flick. Realistic fiction. Too close to home.

She tensed, waiting for the creature to take the bait she’d left out about 10 feet away. A sheep stomach, fresh from the butcher.

But she heard a car drive past. No, not past. It was driving into the parking lot. She could now see the headlights shining brightly over a tiny patch in the parking lot. She whipped around and tried to press her body against the dumpster to remain out of sight, but the car was stopped directly in front of her. Quickly returning the blade to the inside of her dress, she stood and shielded her eyes.

The engine turned off and the headlights dimmed.

Mary straightened out her dress a bit and quickly thought of a story to tell whoever was going to emerge from the car. She’d tell them her boyfriend and she had come out here to make out. He got too handsy, so she told him to beat it. The guy meant well, but Mary was a good girl and was saving herself for marriage. The stranger needn’t worry himself over her. No, she didn’t need a lift back to town. She had her car parked out just down the road.

Except now that the headlights had dimmed, Mary recognized the car. A 1967 Chevy Impala Sports Sedan. Black.

“John?” Mary tried.

She heard a car door slam and footsteps approaching.

“Mary?” a voice said. It was John.

She quickly scraped the dog shit off her shoe and walked toward him, cautiously.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked, lightly tapping the blade through the fabric of her dress to make sure it didn’t fall out.

It was dark, but Mary could see John’s handsome face pinched and concerned against the moonlight.

“Looking for you! Thought we’d grab a bite to eat at the diner because the flick. Tim McGregor saw your car drive past his house about twenty minutes ago” He paused. “What are _you_ doing out here?” He sounded worried.

Well, the backstory she’d previously concocted wasn’t going to work on John. “I was… I was running an errand for my dad and…um…”

She stopped and instinctively touched the blade under fabric. Over John’s shoulder, she saw a humanoid figure standing beside the Impala. It swayed back and forth a bit. Mary knew it was weak, hungry, probably hadn’t fed in days, but it could still take out a grown man, even an ex-Marine, in one pounce.

It could take out a grown man, sure, but could it take out Mary Winchester?

“John,” she whispered firmly, “I need you to listen to me carefully.” She grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him toward her. She backed herself up toward the dumpster.

John smiled. “I like where this is going, but here? Really? By the dumpster?”

Mary decided to stow that bit of male necessity for an eye roll later. As silently as possible, she opened the lid of the dumpster.

“The real reason I’m here was because I left my nice shoes out here when I went out for a run,” she lied. “I think someone must’ve tossed them in the dumpster thinking they were trash. Can you look?”

She kept one eye on John, one on the rougarou ahead of her. It staggered forward a bit and leaned against the Impala for balance. It must’ve been starving.

In one motion, John hoisted himself up into the dumpster. “Anything for my gal.”

Mary smiled to herself. She felt like such a silly little girl, but the fact that John didn’t even think twice before getting his nice slacks covered in god knows what made her all warm and fuzzy inside.

Mary turned and saw John hunch down, low enough so he was hidden from the opening of the dumpster. Now she had one shot, and one shot only. She reached up and slammed the lid down, the sound echoing across the parking lot.

“Hey!” John’s muffled voice cried from inside.

Sprinting forward, Mary drew the blade and went straight for the rougarou’s neck. It didn’t even try to duck. The blade she had may have been short and light, but it was sharp enough to cut through monster flesh like butter. The head plopped down to the asphalt with a dull, squishy sound, the body collapsing immediately after. Without a second thought, she dropped to her hands and knees and shoved the body under the Impala. Her shoe, still covered in dog shit, kicked the head under too.  

“Lose something else?” John said. He was now standing stock-straight in the dumpster, holding the lid above his head.

Mary quickly stood and brushed off her knees. “Yeah, an earring. It’s OK. They were cheap anyway.”

John swung a leg over the edge of the dumpster then slid out. “Sorry, Mary, I think they must’ve taken the trash to the dump already. There wasn’t anything in there.”

Mary smiled. He was such a sweetheart and treated her like a damsel in distress. She briefly wondered what he’d think of her if he knew what she spent a good chunk of her life doing.

As soon as he reached the car, Mary threw her arms around him and gave him an innocent peck on the lips. “Thanks, John.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist, looked at her with those soft brown eyes and Mary could just melt.

He then furrowed his brow and let go of her. “Um, I hate to do this, but that dumpster. Phew! Mind if I go home and shower before we catch the movie? I smell like dog doo and raw meat.”

Mary burst out laughing.

******

April 23, 2010 – Sioux Falls, SD

The whiskey glass was murky, like it had been used so much that it had simply absorbed the gallons upon gallons alcohol and saliva that sat in it over the years. The whiskey itself was decent, not some bottom shelf swill, but also not the best kind people could get, even at the corner liquor store. Bottom line, it was drinkable. It numbed the throat as it went down, oozing into the stomach warm and raw.

Dean was sitting at the kitchen table in Bobby Singer’s house. There was a plastic, red checker pattern tablecloth over the small, four-person table, a few brown rings stained on it. Dean placed his whiskey glass directly over one. It fit perfectly in the circle.

“Sorry you had to hear this all at once,” Bobby said. He was sitting opposite Dean, an empty beer bottle in his hands and a sympathetic look on his face. He’d just told Dean the Devil was real, and so was Santa, in a matter of speaking. The Devil wanted to wipe out all of humanity, slowly and painfully. Santa would probably kill him too if he gave him the chance.

Dean looked through the entryway that connected the kitchen to the living room. Castiel was standing there, his trench coat hanging off him more sullenly than usual. He had massive bags under his eyes, but otherwise looked a bit better than he had about a half hour ago when they first teleported hundreds of miles across land and rivers and air and probably through a flock of birds at some point. Dean wasn’t sure how quantum physics worked.

“So this is how it all ends, huh?” Dean said. His voice was weak. He hadn’t said a word since Bobby started talking about demonic possession and angels watching over him since his first breath of life thirty-one years ago.

“It doesn’t have to end,” Castiel said, entering the kitchen. He loomed over Dean, but kept his distance.

Dean looked him up and down. “You’re not human,” he stated.

It felt weird to hear the words from his own lips. After Cas’s blunt statements about being an angel, Bobby had explained it in as much detail as he seemed to know, which, to be honest, wasn’t much. Cas had kept his lips tight the whole time, gazing at Dean as if he were trying to pick up on every little facial expression he was making. Dean kept his poker face solid, only moving to gulp the whiskey down, but he still found it hard to meet Cas’s eyes.

“No,” Castiel responded.

“Shoulda known,” Dean snorted. No eating. No sleeping. Never getting drunk. Made sense.

The sound of a chair against linoleum made Dean jump. Bobby stood.

“I’m guessing things’ll be quiet for a bit,” he said to Cas. “No need to alert others, cause a panic. And that includes your brother, Dean. Don’t go makin’ any phone calls just yet. We gotta be cautious. I need to run out and get some supplies. Ellen and Jo are on their way as planned, but probably won’t be here for another few hours.”

Bobby placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. He said in a low voice, “Rufus?”

Cas gazed at Bobby with bleary eyes. He shook his head.

Bobby’s jaw visibly tensed. For a moment, he looked at the linoleum floor without saying a word. He then turned back to Cas. “You good to hold down the fort? Never seen ya that beat before.”

Castiel nodded. “Yes, now this house is essentially a fortress. Your anti-demon spells are impeccable. But it would be wisest to ward against angels as well.”

“No,” Bobby replied. “I ain’t kickin’ you to the curb just yet.”

Castiel smiled slightly as Bobby opened the side door and left the house.

Dean tossed his head back and swallowed a shot of whiskey. Thank god Bobby’d left the whole bottle on the table.

“Dean,” Cas said after a few moments.

Dean stared straight ahead at the whiskey bottle. There was a price sticker on it that was half peeled off. $10.95. He kept his eyes fixated on that as he felt a presence by his side.

“Are you alright?” Cas asked, a twinge of hope in his voice.

Dean turned his head slightly, just enough so he could see Cas staring down at him. This was a familiar scene. Dean with a bottle in front of him, an empty glass in his hand, and Castiel right there. Familiar, yet so entirely mind-fuckingly different. He snatched the bottle, unscrewed the top, and chugged for about five seconds. The bottle slammed against the cheap tablecloth when he couldn’t choke anymore down.

“Peachy, Cas,” Dean replied. “Just peachy. How are you?”

He stood, too quickly actually, and he saw stars as the blood rushed from his head. He maintained his composure and stared Castiel down. They were almost the same height, but Dean was bulkier and didn’t hunch over like the other man did, which made him appear bigger. If Dean had been asked the day before, he would have told anyone he could take Castiel in a fight, punched him straight in that permanently downturned mouth, sent him reeling back. He’d grab him by the shoulders after that. Head butt him. Dean knew he’d hurt himself too, but damn would it feel good to get all that aggression out. Castiel would probably not make a move against him. Probably stare with his big blue eyes, his eyebrows furrowed and confused.

Not that he’d want to do any of that before today.

“You blame me for this,” Castiel said, a sudden realization in his voice.

“No, Cas,” Dean corrected. “No, I can swallow the fact that my own mother is now possessed by the Devil himself and that ain’t nobody’s fault but old Beelzebub. Oh, and I’m fine with the idea that now all hell is going to break loose and humanity is basically getting flushed straight down the crapper. None of that’s your fault. It’s not like you’re God. You’re not the guy who ordained all this shit.”

Castiel looked down at his shoes. “No, I’m not God,” he confirmed.

“No, you know what bothers me?” Dean continued. “You know what really gets my goat in all this? The fact that you, with your sparkly Lite-Brite eyes and your teleportation powers and your wings – your fucking wings! – couldn’t do fuck all to stop any of this from even happening.”

Castiel’s eyes shot back up to Dean’s and his lips tightened. “You don’t think I tried? Dean, I spent four years trying to find a loop hole, trying to find a way around it. I pleaded with my superiors to aid me. I guarded every one of the 66 Seals to Lucifer’s cage simultaneously. But they still managed to best me.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean said, mockingly. “How did all those little red demon men get the best of you, Mr. All Mighty Angel? Did they use their pointy triton thingies on your ass?”

Castiel’s nostrils flared. His eyes darted back and forth between Dean’s left and right eyes. This was Cas’s tell. Whenever Dean presented him with a question about his life, he’d remain tight-lipped, not even bothering to answer with a lie. Dean had once asked him what kinds of girls he liked and he responded in this very same manner. Dean corrected himself and asked what kinds of guys he liked. Same response.

But this time, to Dean’s surprise, Castiel gave an answer. “I failed because of you.”

Dean swallowed hard.

Castiel didn’t wait for a reply. “Those days I was by your side, watching you drown yourself in liquor and processed food, surrounded by people you didn’t love, who never loved you, I was there because you were in danger. They wanted you. Heaven, Hell, and everything in between. They wanted Dean Winchester in his rightful place.”

Dean snorted. “And here I was thinking you just enjoyed my company.”

Castiel’s eyes widened and he took a step back. “I… “ He turned away and looked at the linoleum floor as if the words were scatter down there.

“My rightful place, huh?” Dean chimed in. He didn’t want to interpret what that silence meant.

Dean’s words seemed to bring Castiel back out of his own head. “Yes, your rightful place.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean nodded and took a few steps towards the living room. He felt suddenly extremely tired. It could have been the alcohol finally hitting him, or it could have been the information he’d just received, or he could have still been feeling the after effects from the teleportation. Either way, he needed to sit on that old, comfy-looking couch.

Castiel followed, but remained standing as Dean sat down and leaned his torso back on the cushions.

“The prophesy was re-written,” Castiel continued. “We- they didn’t need you to fulfill it. You served no further purpose.”

“Ah,” Dean said. “So that’s what you meant when you told my mom, or Lucifer, whoever, that I was nobody.”

A sigh of frustration escaped Cas’s lips. “I didn’t mean… I was trying to convince Lucifer to spare you.”

Dean rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. “Why is that, Cas? If I serve ‘no further purpose’ to your master plan for taking over the world or whatever, why protect me? Why even bother? I’m an alcoholic mechanic in my thirties with no prospects for the future besides maybe becoming some weekend dad with a bad back.” He picked up the copy of _Bloody Mary_ that was lying on the cushion beside him. “This Donovan Windcaster who’s supposed to be me in these stupid books is a hero. He saves people. What do I do? I fix cars and warm barstools. You’re right in saying I’m nobody.”

Saying the words out loud felt at once like a relief and like a kick to the nads. He’d known since Dad had first caught him filling up vodka bottles with water from the sink to hide the amount he’d already drunk that he had nothing to give the world except disappointment. When his girlfriend Rhonda had sighed every time her friends announced an engagement, he knew she was thinking that would never happen with Dean. The day Sam got the job at some fancy law firm, Dean couldn’t feel happy for him. He wanted to so bad, but there was nothing there but self-pity.

Castiel was now seated to the right of him on the couch, his body turned so he was directly facing Dean. His right hand hovered a bit near Dean’s leg before landing on his knee. It felt awkward there, like Cas hadn’t been sure what to do, but knew Dean needed human contact. Decades of conditioning told Dean to reflexively push it away, that a man doesn’t touch another man there, but the warmth of it felt alright. It felt good. Dean appreciated the contact in general, but from Cas… He realized this was the first time Cas had ever initiated any physical contact like this.

On several occasions, Dean had drunkenly thrown his arms around Cas, calling him things ranging from his best bud to his only friend in the world because they were both going to die without beautiful women by their sides but at least they had each other.

Even sober, Dean would catch himself patting Cas on the back or shoulder. In the first few months of their acquaintanceship, Cas had merely stiffened and stared at Dean’s hand for a whole minute, as if Dean had slapped him hard across the face with it and it was about to jump up to do it again. But after a while, the physical contact brought a smile to Cas’s face. Dean would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy seeing it.

Cas’s hand remained motionless on Dean’s knee. “You are not nobody. I told you I failed because of you. But I had a choice.”

His face was now close to Dean’s, as if getting right up in there would drive the point home harder.

“Dean,” Cas went on, “on that cold December night, you were supposed to die.”

Dean tensed at those words.

“In fact, you did die. For the briefest of moments, you were dead. You were in Hell.”

The words flashed in his brain. He remembered nothing. The car crash. Being flung out into the snow. The brief pain then nothing.

“Your soul was supposed to be there for eternity,” Cas continued. “Tortured by demons. Ripped apart until you begged them to turn you into a demon too. But I couldn’t let that happen.”

The hand that was on his knee moved to Dean’s left arm. Castiel leaned in closer.

“Cas,” Dean whispered. The man – the angel – was close enough that he could see the veins in his eyes.

He knew what Castiel was touching. That bizarre, misshapen burn mark that had appeared on his arm after the crash. Some people said it looked vaguely like a handprint, but Dean was convinced it looked more like a stegosaurus. The authorities assured him there hadn’t been any fire or any explosions for that matter, yet he’d somehow suffered third degree burns. The doctors treated it, saying that while the burn was severe, it was already at least four days healed a few hours after the accident. No one could ever explain it.

“I had to choose,” Castiel said. “Obey my orders, the orders sent directly to me from the highest authority of Heaven.” He gripped Dean’s arm tightly. “Or disobey and save you.”

The scar felt warm. Dean looked down at his arm. His cotton shirt cinched between Castiel’s fingers. He then turned his head back to the face in front of his.

“Guess I should say thanks,” Dean grumbled.

Castiel cocked his head slightly. That confused look. Fuck how it drove Dean crazy.


	16. Chapter 16

November 22, 1999 – London, UK

“You’re so funny, Mr. Crowley!” she said, her voice high-pitched and nasal. She had golden blonde hair and an upturned nose, the kind that could only possibly look cute on a girl with her personality, or lack thereof.

A hand brushed against Crowley’s bicep flirtatiously. He’d just retold a joke Lenny Bruce had told him in 1954 at a club not unlike this one, except it was in Chicago. The music was different, of course. The skirts were much longer. The joke was somehow relevant to the situation at hand, and he felt the need to butter up the little pop starlet who was sitting next to him on the couch. She was up-and-coming, but lacked the faintest hint of wits about her, which meant she was careless with her gift for being infinitely stupid and entertaining. All she needed was that extra little push in the right direction and then she’d be the highest paid talentless civilian since David Hasselhoff.

Crowley grinned.

They were at a small club, exclusive and secret to the public, but considering drinks started at £15 for being so-called “designer” cocktails, Crowley couldn’t imagine the average Londoner wanting to waltz in here any time soon. Crowley, of course, didn’t mind throwing down the shekels if it meant the girl would eventually fall square into his lap. Being the King of the Crossroads came with its financial perks.

Crowley continued. “If that one gets you in stitches, wait til you hear…”

Above the pounding yet infinitely chill house music, Crowley distinctly heard a throat being cleared. Not just any throat. The throat of a perturbed woman standing in front of them. She wore jeans and leather ankle boots, her blonde hair cropped short. Her face looked none-too-pleased.

“Hello, love,” Crowley greeted. He turned to the girl on the couch. “Shall we continue our conversation later? This will only take a moment.”

She glared up at the woman in front of them jealously, but nodded anyway and left.

Crowley took the petite phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. He embraced technology wholeheartedly. Mobile phones were so much easier to use for communication than the blood of innocents.

“Meg, don’t believe you’ve met the dress code for this posh little joint. I distinctly remember the bouncer saying heels only for ladies. I may have to alert the club owner. Friend of mine, real hardass. You’d love him.”

“Can the snobby English crap, Crowley,” Meg said, folding her arms over her chest. “I’m here to talk business.”

“Oo, talk business to me,” Crowley replied flirtatiously, picking up his scotch from the glass table next to him. “I’d offer you a drink, but honestly, I’d rather not spend the time with you it would take the pretty little bartender to mix a cosmo. I heard that’s what all the desperate single girls are drinking nowadays.”

Meg smiled sorely. “Pathetic and clichéd as ever. Don’t worry. I hate house music and the sight of your flabby gut anyway. I’m here with a message from Lilith.”

Internally, Crowley cursed. Well, Crowley usually internally cursed things. It was kind of what he did for a living. He kept himself outwardly composed, cool, but at the mention of the mother of all demons, he couldn’t help but curse his own damn luck.

“Oh?” he said, with a rather large sip of scotch. “What does Mummy want? Have I forgotten her birthday again? Those chrysanthemums I’d sent last century must have dried up by now.”

Meg might be in a different meat suit from when he’d last seen her, but she still had the same exact eye roll. “Simple request. And it would make the single most powerful demon ever so happy if you just swallowed your fucking pride and did as you’re told.”

The right side of Crowley’s mouth curled up to a smile. Most powerful demon. Yes, Lilith was the first, and yes, she had the best, most impressive fireworks display around, but she didn’t have what Crowley had spent decades mastering: finesse. Lilith could take out a hundred souls in under an hour with the wave of her hand, but for what? They’d fill Hell’s quotas, put butts in fire and brimstone seats, but the quality wouldn’t be there. She’d attract low level criminals like flies to rotting meat. It would be quick. It would be easy. 

Crowley, on the other hand, was the master of the long con. He had world leaders and geniuses and holy men eating out of the palm of his hand. A single soul he collected was worth thousands of what she could get. And he didn’t do it for the recognition. No, he did it because he loved it. He was good at it. He knew what Hell needed and he delivered.

“Why do I have a sinking suspicion this isn’t truly a simple request?” Crowley said.

Meg frowned, then smiled. “Simple enough for any demon with half a brain. Maybe not simple enough for you.” She leaned forward, her hands grabbing the fabric of his black Armani suit. She cooed in his face, “All Lilith wants is for you to step aside. Take a bystander’s seat on this one.”

Unflinching, Crowley asked, “This one? You couldn’t possibly mean...” He read Meg’s expression like a book. “Oh, I see. So we’re back on with this whole apocalypse thing and Queen of the Damned wants me to keep my sticky fingers out of the biscuit jar. No souls for a week. I’m on a diet, anyway. You won’t have to worry about little ol’ me.”

Meg stood back up and snorted. “Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. We know what you’ve been up to. How’s the search for Chuck coming along?”

Crowley grinned ever so slightly. The search had actually been going terribly. In fact, up until this point, he didn’t even have a first name. Meg’s carelessness was a step in the right direction.

“Swimmingly,” Crowley lied.

“Well, back off,” Meg ordered. “We can’t go near him with all those winged assholes circling, but consider Chuck as good as dead. And don’t even think about the next in line. We already got him.”

Crowley mentally cursed. He’d somehow found the name of that kid, some three-year-old in Michigan. Useless at this juncture, but possibly vital in the future if the current prophet didn’t pan out.

Meg went on, “So consider this a warning. You back off or we chain you for all eternity to the soul of some tax accountant from Iowa named Jeff who only talks about that one time there was a paper jam in the fax machine at the office and it was, as he says, nuts.”

“Anything but that,” Crowley said as dryly as possible.

In a blink of an eye, Meg turned on her cheap heels and exited the club, knocking over the reality starlet’s cosmopolitan on her way out.

“Chuck,” Crowley said aloud before taking a sip of his scotch. “Well, that narrows it down.”

He took his phone out again and dialed.

******

April 23, 2010 – Los Angeles, CA

“Fucking hell!”

Crowley was tossed by an invisible hand against a photo on the wall. It was a photo of Chuck with his Ferrari the day he brought it home. He was like a kid on his birthday, except the birthday present cost about $300,000, not including tax. He’d hired a professional photographer to come to his house, got the picture taken, and made glossy prints that he sent out as his Christmas card for that year. In retrospect, it was tacky, but he thought it was the ultimate fuck-you to his cousin who bragged about his starting salary as a broker being a cool fifty grand a year.

Chuck felt some force stronger than gravity pushing him down to the seat of his chair. Perhaps it was the feeling that his spine was about to break from all the pressure, or perhaps it was because the woman from the vision he had had just appeared in front of him, or perhaps it was because he recognized her from other visions, but Chuck couldn’t help but scream.

“Oh, sorry!” she said sheepishly. “I’m still getting used to being out of the cage. I’m like a dog off her leash. All this freedom, not sure what to do with it!”

Suddenly, the pressure subsided. Chuck still couldn’t move, but at least now he didn’t feel like he was getting squashed like an aluminum beer can under the weight of a frat boy.

“You’re…” Chuck said in a shaky voice. He’d know that face anywhere. He’d seen it fighting monsters, he’d seen it smiling at two young boys, he’d seen it in flames on the ceiling. “You’re… you’re Mary…”

She tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “No, Chuck. Mary Winchester is only the vessel. But pleased to meet you. I’d hope you’d guess my name.”

“The Rolling Stones?” Crowley groaned from the wall. “Really? You’re going to plagiarize the bloody Stones?”

Mary’s eyes flashed at Crowley. “The King of the Crossroads. You’ve been busy these past few centuries, haven’t you? I saw some of your handy work from behind those insufferable bars around my cage. You’re quite good. I’ve seen better, but I’ll give you credit.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Chuck saw Crowley struggle and grit his teeth, but he too was unable to move.

She returned her attention to Chuck with a sympathetic look on her face. “And our prophet. I’m so sorry you had to see all those horrible things. All those horrible deaths. Why my father would entrust such knowledge to a mere human baffles me. But who am I to question his judgment? Look where that got me the first time around.” She smiled ironically. “Ah, but don’t worry. Most of those deaths you saw came true. Most, and much more. Without the Winchesters in action, who was there to save them?”

Her eyes fell on the notepaper beside the tablet. She snickered as if she were remembering some private joke. “I see you’ve been busy too.” She hovered her hand over the paper. Chuck watched as his hours of painstaking work burst into flames.

Just as Chuck cringed at the thought of having to go through all those scribbles and the eye squinting in an opaque, velvet bag again, the tablet appeared in Mary’s hands. She eyed it for a bit wordlessly, stroking the engravings gently.

“How can you be real?” Chuck wasn’t sure what to say, so he just blurted whatever came out of his panicking mind.

Mary had had a few cameos in his many visions, usually featuring the Winchesters simultaneously reuniting and mourning her death all within the span of a single episode. Of all the tragedy and horror Chuck witnessed behind his eyelids, those were always the worst. He knew the Winchesters weren’t real – well, at least he thought they weren’t real at the time – but the emotions, the murky mix of joy and sorrow upon seeing their deceased mother, took all that he had out of him.

His own mother was nothing special, but he loved her just the same. She was a high school American history teacher. Smart, head in her books, taking Chuck and his brother to Civil War reenactments on the weekends. Chuck had no interest in them, and actually found the prospect of no running water and no electricity and dying from gangrene horrifying. But his mom loved them, and he could tell she internally wept when he nayed the idea of going to college and instead focused on the exciting and viable career of working at Blockbuster.

But Mary Winchester held a special place in his heart. She represented all the softness and good that was in the boys. While their father molded them into hardened men, her memory kept them grounded. Seeing her standing before him as Lucifer just felt wrong.

“Wait!” Chuck said before Lucifer could answer his question. “How are you even in Mary? That sounds so weird, but you know what I mean. Mary died in 1983!”

“Perhaps,” Lucifer replied. The tablet in her hands suddenly faded and vanished. She flexed her empty hands. “Perhaps she died in 1983, perhaps she’s still alive. Perhaps she was never born, perhaps she got hit by a bus as a teenager, and perhaps she died at the ripe old age of 102. Who knows anymore? The prophecy you envisioned could very well have been simply a vivid, terrifying dream.”

Chuck blinked in confusion.

“I’d have to say I’m the type who lives in the here and now,” Lucifer went on. “Quite literally the here, as opposed to whatever parallel reality there is.” She sighed. “Either way, I’m afraid this is where we must part ways, Chuck.”

She reached out two fingers and leaned over the table. Chuck went cross eyed as the fingers drew closer to his forehead, glowing blue and emanating heat. Judging from his visions of angels smiting people with a single touch, Chuck figured Lucifer’s hand getting closer to him was going to bring nothing but a quick and possibly painful reaping. He flinched and tried to pull away, but found himself still immobilized.

“Luci, I sincerely hope you’re not planning on vaporizing my meal ticket.”

Crowley, hardly looking like he’d been thrown against the wall just moments earlier, was suddenly next to Lucifer. There was a grin on his face and a shiny, metallic object in his hand. A zippo lighter. He tossed it to the ground and flames sprung up from the floor, forming a circle straight through Chuck’s $30,000 table.

Chuck kicked himself back and fell to the floor. He scrambled away from the flames and jumped up awkwardly, not even registering that he had regained control of his limbs until he got to the other side of the room.

The flames created sinister shadows on Lucifer’s face as she stared at Chuck. “Run, little prophet. Run for now. But I will find you. I know every square inch of this beautiful green earth. I was instrumental in its creation. There isn’t any rock you can hide under where I won’t find you”

Crowley was suddenly beside Chuck, a hand on his shoulder. “I do rather love a game of hide and seek.”

Chuck blinked.

Or maybe his eyes were closed. Either way, it was dark. He moved his eyelids up and down, but there wasn’t even the faintest glimmer of light in front of him. While he couldn’t see anything, he didn’t feel like he was blind. Well, he didn’t know what blind felt like, but he assumed it didn’t feel like this.

His face felt hot, his feet cold, and his torso a mosaic of temperatures. He instinctively folded his arms over his abdomen and shivered.

“Hello?” he cried in a weak voice. His echo was his only reply.

He stood there for what seemed like hours. There was something wet beneath him, like sharp, cold beach rocks, which made him realize he wasn’t wearing any shoes. In fact, it took him awhile to realize he wasn’t wearing any clothes at all. His hands immediately fell to his junk. Why was it that that was always the first place anyone assumed someone would attack? Was it the tiny monkey part of human brains that told them some big, hungry saber tooth tiger wanted nothing more than to sink his fangs into a fleshy, delectable penis?

Chuck didn’t know why his mind was going there, but at least it was distracting him from the general situation.

He decided to take a step forward. With much effort, his brain told his left leg to move. His leg did indeed lift, but it took another long while for his foot to fall to the ground. He winced as he felt more cold beach rocks. It wasn’t pleasant, but at least he wasn’t surprised. His right foot soon followed suit, and before long, he was walking a few paces in various directions.

“Hello?” he tried again. Nothing.

He took a small step to his right and felt something soft brush against him. He yelped with surprise. With his heart racing, he reached out and touched the offending object. It felt like terry cloth. He followed the line of the fabric up and down with his fingers. A bathrobe? He shivered and removed it from whatever it was hanging on. A quick sniff told him it was clean before he draped it over his shoulders. He immediately felt his body temperature balance to something close to normal.

He continued to wander here and there for a few more minutes, the fear subsiding into boredom. He’d been in his house, but now he wasn’t. He could see, but now he couldn’t. He was clothed, and then he was naked, and now he was wearing a bathrobe for some reason.

And where was Crowley in all of this?

“Crowley?” he tried.

Immediately, the space around him illuminated. A single bulb hung from above. Chuck squinted, but tried to look up at it. He realized the bulb wasn’t hanging from a ceiling. The string it was attached to went up and up into the darkness. When his eyes adjusted to the light, Chuck noticed a figure in a black coat sitting in a simple, wooden chair some fifteen paces ahead of him.

“Oh Chuck, say my name again,” Crowley said mockingly. He smirked.

“What the fuck?” was all Chuck could say about the situation.

“Maybe a more apt question would be ‘Where the fuck?’” Crowley corrected.

Chuck made his way slowly toward his literary agent, clutching the robe tightly to his body. He sought some form of comfort, and the bathrobe was the only thing providing it.

“Lucifer himself had said there wasn’t any rock on earth you could hide under where he wouldn’t find you,” Crowley said. He then motioned to the space around him. “Good thing you know people with, shall we say, alternative living spaces.”

Chuck gulped. “No. No no no no no. This.. this can’t be happening.” He collapsed to the cold rocks below his feet. His right shin scraped against something and he felt himself bleed, but he didn’t care.

Crowley gave a prideful grin. “Chuck Shurley, allow me to welcome you to Hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated early this time. Go me. Also, welcome to Hell, everybody!


	17. Chapter 17

October 24, 2009 – Lawrence, KS

The green eyes in the mirror glared back at Dean. The monkey suit his reflection had on looked ridiculous, the collar too tight because Dean had been late to the fitting a few weeks ago. The reflection had a bowtie in its right hand, a tequila bottle in its left. With one practiced motion, the tequila bottle made its way to the mouth. Dean swallowed.

“Alright, you son of a bitch,” he murmured. “Tie this frickin’ bowtie.”

He took one last swig from the tequila bottle before setting it down on a small wooden table by the mirror. The table looked old, with a few scratch marks on the surface. The place may have been a country club, but it sure wasn’t fancy. No one really complained, except an odd great-aunt from the Campbell side who had insisted they do this thing in a church.

This thing. The wedding. Sam’s wedding.

Dean should have shown more respect. He should have shown up to the rehearsal dinner sober. He should have scraped together some cash to help pay for the flowers or something. He should have bought a better present than a fucking microwave.

But what did he care? Sam was a stranger to him. A stranger with the same last name, sure, but a man he hardly knew. They were never all that close growing up, but since that dreary December, things went completely downhill. Sam would fly out to Lawrence, see Mom, talk with her for ages. Talk to her about everything. He brought Jessica, who was beautiful and kind and smart as all hell, but couldn’t look Dean in the eye.

The wedding was in Lawrence because Sam insisted Mom not have to pay for a plane ticket out to San Francisco. Besides, all Sam’s hoity-toity Stanford friends could afford their own damn tickets. Jessica’s mom and sister drove down from Nebraska.

Dean wouldn’t have gone if it were all the way out west. He would’ve come up with some excuse. Work. Money. Missed flight if it got down to the wire. It would disappoint Mom to no end, but Dean couldn’t fathom bringing himself to face what he imagined to be dream lifestyle of a new lawyer, driving a snobby hybrid car while wearing sunglasses that cost more than what Dean made in a week or two.

There was a rapping at the door.

“Just a minute!” Dean called, fiddling with the tie.

The door opened anyway. Dean saw Sam’s figure in the mirror.

“Well, if it ain’t the groom himself,” Dean mumbled. He removed the half-tied tie and decided to start over.

Dean saw Sam’s eyes dart to the tequila bottle then to the back of Dean’s head.

Sam cleared his throat. “Hey, um, you look nice. Never seen you in a tux.”

Dean snorted. “I feel like I’m in a strait jacket.” The tie finally looked like something resembling a bow, albeit a crooked one. He left it.

“Dean,” Sam said, “I appreciate you being here.”

“Jessica tell you to say that?” Dean replied, pretending to straighten his sleeves in the mirror. Anything to avoid turning around.

Sam frowned. “No. Well, she might have implied I should, but…” Sam paused. “You know what? You have fun sulking in here. It’s my wedding day, but let’s nurse your feelings. Let’s make it all about Dean Winchester here.”

That was enough to make Dean turn around. “Alright, bridezilla, if we’re being sarcastic here, let me add thanks for making your only brother your best man. Oh wait, you didn’t. Raj gets the honor.” Dean headed for the bottle. “You know, I wasn’t going to say anything out of respect for Mom, but I never wanted to fucking be here!”

Sam’s chest was puffed out, aggressively. He was a big guy and could intimidate most men who didn’t know him better with a single glance, but Dean knew him. He knew he was a pussy.

“Fine,” Sam replied, turning on his heel to leave. “Then you can just fucking leave.”

“You walk away!” Dean ordered. “You walk away like how you walked the fuck away from me when Dad died.”

Dean had no idea why he had said that. He hadn’t even been thinking about that day. It was in the back of his mind nearly every waking moment since it happened, but it had never been brought to the forefront like this. Mom had tried to bring Dean to grief counseling, but he never went. A bartender or a pretty waitress was the only grief counselor he needed. Otherwise, he never talked about it.

Sam stopped just as he was reaching for the door handle. His shoulders slouched forward, visibly pained.

Dean’s instinct told him to reach out, put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, and tell him he was sorry. He wanted to go back in time to the point where it all went sour, where the Winchester brothers stopped being brothers and instead became nothing.

But he knew there was no one singular point in time. Dad’s death had been the straw that broke the camel’s back, but they hadn’t been brothers for a long time.

“Listen, Sam,” Dean finally said, lowering his voice. “Let me stay. Just for the ceremony. I’ll peace out for the reception, say I got a stomach bug or something. But I wanna stay for Mom.”

“For Mom,” Sam repeated with a sigh.

Sam left the room.

******

April 23, 2010 – San Francisco, CA

“Stop, stop,” Ruby begged, breathless.

They were in someone’s backyard, the grass a bit dry and crunchy from the rain they hadn’t had all season. A Fischer-Price play set was nestled near the sliding glass door. There were no lights on in the house and the porch lights outside seemed to be out.

Sam remembered. There was no power at his place, so there was probably no power here either.

His place. Where he left his wife’s body.

Ruby hacked for a few seconds. Sam had no idea how long they’d been running, but he didn’t recognize the neighborhood they were in, so it had probably been for quite a while. They’d tried to stop a few minutes ago, but some zombie people appeared from behind a gas station convenience store, so they kept running. Sam’s dress shoes he’d worn to work chaffed against his left Achilles’ heel, breaking skin. He could feel blood seeping through his sock.

He came up next to Ruby and rubbed her back as she dry heaved. When she finally came up for air, she pushed a few stray strands of her long, brown hair out of her face. Even in the lack of light, Sam could tell she was drenched in sweat and pale as a ghost.

“Sorry,” she said, sounding weak. “I can’t run anymore.”

Sam nodded, but said nothing. Truth be told, he wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the prickly grass and pass out. This had to be all a vision. A long, horrible, disturbingly interactive vision that he prayed wouldn’t come true.

“Wait,” Ruby said. She looked around the yard. A smile crept on to her face. “I know this neighborhood! My sister lives here. All these houses look the same, but…” She pointed at something in the distance. “I think I see her son’s swing set over there.”

Sam felt a hand clasp around his wrist. He gazed down and saw Ruby tugging him across the lawns, their footsteps rustling in the grass. It was almost completely black, save for the half-moon hanging overheard. Even the stars seemed to have gone out.

They arrived at a modest ranch house, with – sure enough – a metal swing set in the backyard. Looping around the house to the front, Sam kept an eye out for anything suspicious, though he wasn’t exactly sure what suspicious was anymore. He and this woman he barely knew probably looked mighty suspicious themselves sneaking around in the dark. After all, his hands and a good part of his shirt were covered in his dead wife’s blood.

He briefly wondered what he would say if some cops happened upon them. He imagined they’d shine one of those huge spotlights he’d seen in a Looney Tunes cartoon where Bugs Bunny was escaping prison. They’d blow a whistle and Sam would back up against the wall, hands up in the air. Some sniper would have his sights on Sam’s forehead. Sam would beg them to kill him.

Ruby pushed the doorbell button, but nothing happened. She proceeded to knock a few times while Sam peered through the small window on the side of the door.

“Christina!” Ruby yelled.

Sam flinched. “Maybe we shouldn’t be yelling. Those things might hear us and come running.”

Ruby gazed up at him for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right. I don’t think she’s home anyway.” Her face suddenly scrunched. “Where the hell could she be?”

She made her way to the planter a few feet away and reached out for a small, stone frog. Lifting it, she revealed a key.

Sam and Ruby soon found themselves inside. It was pitch-black. Sam instinctively reached for a light switch, but nothing turned on. A small beam soon appeared in front of him.

“Flashlight,” Ruby said. “There was one by the front door.”

There was no one on earth that would deny the fact that houses at night with a single flashlight lighting the way were anything but spooky. Ruby’s sister’s house was no exception. Years and years of dreaming about the shadows swirling with a disembodied voice seeping into his ears had made Sam afraid. He wasn’t afraid of the dark. What he was afraid of was what lurked in that darkness, waiting for him. Telling him things he didn’t want to know, yet couldn’t help but listen to.

He felt a presence next to him and jumped.

“Sorry!” Ruby’s voice said.

Sam felt something hard and plastic in his hand.

“I found another one in the kitchen,” Ruby said. “Flashlight. Turn it on. We’ll find some batteries too. And water.”

Sam hadn’t realized his throat felt like sand paper until just now. He quickly followed Ruby to the kitchen where she was attempting the sink. Nothing came out.

“The water too?” Sam said with surprise. No power, no running water, no people save for the crazed, hyper-violent zombies outside.

Sam heard a fridge open and something get shuffled around. Ruby shone a light on a gallon of bottled water she had in her hand before taking a swig. After a few long moments, she gasped and handed it to Sam. He grabbed it as she shone her flashlight on him.

“Oh god,” she cried, covering her mouth. She took a step back and stopped when she hit the kitchen counter.

“What?” Sam panicked, shining the light around the kitchen, expecting one of those things to pop out of the cabinet or the pantry or something.

“Your shirt,” Ruby breathed. “You have blood on your shirt. And your face! Sam, she… Dr. Moore got…”

Sam brought a hand to his cheek. It felt moist from perspiration, yet there was something distinctly sticky there. Sam rushed out of the kitchen and started opening doors, desperately seeking a bathroom. When he finally found one, he shone a light under his chin and stared at himself in the mirror. It was hard to tell with the small amount of light in his hands, but he could see an unmistakable discoloration on his left cheek and chin. He examined himself further and saw brownish handprints on his sleeves, a bit of skin exposed where Jessica had ripped his shirt. Underneath the rip, Sam saw that her nails had broken the skin.

Slowly, he returned to the kitchen. Ruby stood behind a table, clutching the handle of a knife in both her hands. She was sobbing.

“Are you…” she choked. “Are you infected?”

Sam gulped. He was thirsty. He felt sick. His dress shirt from work was soaked with sweat. His heart was racing a million miles a minute. He hated himself with every fiber of his being.

“I feel fine,” Sam said quietly.

“Dr. Moore said it started like meningitis,” she said. “What is that? Fever? Do you have a fever?”

Sam put the back of his right hand to his forehead. “I… I don’t know.”

Slowly, cautiously, Ruby made her way around the table. She bumped into a chair, which made a loud skidding sound on the linoleum floor. They both jumped at the sound before Ruby continued to approach Sam. Her knife was still up.

She reached up and placed the back of her hand against Sam’s forehead. She could barely get her hand up to his level, so he leaned down slightly.

Their eyes met. Ruby’s eyes were dark, framed by thick eyebrows and dark brown hair. Sam imagined his own face wild with fear because that was the very look Ruby was giving him. Fear not just from the immediate threat, but from what they’d seen, and what they knew they were going to see again.

Ruby lowered her hand. “You actually feel kind of cold.” She backed away. “You… you keep your distance.”

“I can leave,” Sam offered, though he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to be alone. Not now.

“No!” Ruby said immediately. “I… I think we should have a sort of look out. We should try to sleep, but one of us should be awake and alert the other if something tries to come in.”

Sam nodded. “If I start to… if I start to change, the second I feel anything, I’ll leave. I promise.”

“Me too,” Ruby agreed.

They stared at each other warily for a few seconds.

“We should barricade the door or something,” Ruby suggested.

Sam felt an iota of relief at the suggestion. “Good idea.”

Flashlights in hands, they headed back to the front door and searched for the heaviest object they could find. An antique cabinet had to suffice. Sam pushed it in front of the door as Ruby went around the house drawing the shades shut. The house was old, probably built in the ‘60s, smelled like mildew and decades of cigarette smoke infused in the wallpaper. The floorboards creaked with every step they took, and with every creak, Sam and Ruby both jumped. 

Once they were satisfied with their little fortress, Ruby headed back to the kitchen and brought out some cold cuts and bread. She handed Sam a plate and sat down on the couch in the living room attached to the foyer.

“It’ll go bad anyway,” she said calmly, vaguely echoing Jessica’s comment from earlier.

They ate in silence.

The sliced turkey was dry and tasted like nothing in Sam’s mouth. He chewed mechanically, though he wanted nothing more than to head for the toilet and retch.

Jessica had suspected the sickness was airborne, and he sure had been close enough to her face that he could have caught it. If it wasn’t that, then the blood in his mouth or the scratch on his skin probably did it. He wondered what it would feel like to lose his inhibitions and become aggressive like Jessica had. He wondered if he’d be conscious of what he was doing. He wondered if he’d care.

Ruby stood and shone a light on the wall where there was a clock.

“It’s almost 10,” she said. “I think we should try to sleep. You can take the first, um, shift sleeping, I guess.”

Sam shook his head. “No, you sleep first. I won’t be able to sleep anyway.”

“OK,” Ruby conceded. She seemed relieved. “But wake me up in like three hours. You should at least try to sleep.”

Sam gave a polite smile. “I will.” He knew he wouldn’t. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell he was going to be able to shut his eyes for even a minute.

Ruby headed down a hallway and through a door. Sam heard it close.

He slid the power button on the flashlight down so it shut off. He figured they should try to conserve batteries at this point. Ruby had apparently found a ton of batteries lying around, but he didn’t want to think about what they’d do when they ran out. The stores had to be closed, looted at this point, if not by survivors, but by those zombies. They seemed to have some survival instinct about them, though it seemed to focus on attacking people. The zombies probably needed food. They’d need to get the food somewhere.

At that thought, Sam suddenly became extremely unnerved. He stood from the couch and turned the flashlight back on. He shone it around the room quickly, almost afraid of what it would reveal.

“Screw the batteries,” Sam murmured to himself. “I’m keeping this thing on.”

Sam looked down at his hands and realized they were still bloody, though the blood was dried brown and flaking off a bit with his own skin cells. He couldn’t believe he’d eaten that turkey sandwich with his hands like that. He considered going to the kitchen and using the bottled water to wash it off, but that would be a waste. Instead, he found one of the other bedrooms and headed for the closet. At least he needed to change his shirt and pants, and ideally his shoes if they had his size. He figured they wouldn’t mind if he borrowed a few things considering the circumstances.

He slowly opened the closet door, vaguely remembering how he’d been afraid of what was supposedly inside his closet as a kid. Mom had diligently checked the closet every night after tucking him in.

The light illuminated a bit of the closet, showing a few rather large men’s shirts. Odd. Ruby had said this was her sister’s house, yet there wasn’t a single piece of woman’s clothing in the closet. Sam shrugged, figuring maybe Ruby’s sister had a roommate, or the woman and her husband slept in separate bedrooms for whatever reason.

He grabbed a brownish plaid shirt and eyed a pair of jeans. Both were huge. He found a brown leather belt and managed to make the jeans stay up. The waist of the pants were bunched a bit, and the legs a little too short. He was sure he looked ridiculous, but at least he wasn’t covered in blood anymore. There was a pair of hiking boots that looked entirely unused. Sam sighed when he saw they were his size.

Returning to the living room, Sam decided to distract himself with the knick-knacks in the house. There was a medium size TV in the corner in a cabinet, with a DVD player underneath. A copy of _Sleepless in Seattle_ lay open. He saw a couple kids’ toys on the floor. A Barbie in a shiny pink dress lay face down, her blonde hair in a high ponytail. There was an old upright piano against one of the walls with a stack of papers on top. Sam eyed them, not trying to be nosy, but he needed something other than the situation at hand to think about. They looked like bills, the envelopes torn open. Cell phone, electric, gas. Something from a Catholic school asking for tuition.

Sam eyed them lazily and looked at the name on the address.

_Peter Cortez_

All of them had the same name.

Sam frowned.

Reaching to pick up one of the envelopes, his light shone briefly on the curtain of the window in front of him. He realized it was open just a crack.

Through the crack, he saw a face.


	18. Chapter 18

December 16, 2006 – Sioux Falls, SD

Bobby took a rag by the sink in his basement and started wiping down his machete. The shifter had been a big sonnabitch, nearly 300 pounds, over six feet tall, and he had the blood splatter volume to match. He’d given Bobby the slip for a few days before a surveillance camera at the gas station seven miles out had been robbed. Normally things like that wouldn’t make a blip on his radar, but good ol’ Officer Mills had spotted an odd reflection in the perp’s eyes.

Good ol’ Officer Mills.

Bobby allowed his mouth to curl up into a little smile. He realized he didn’t let himself smile all that much, not since his wife got possessed. Not since he entered the business.

With that smile, he also let his mind wander. He didn’t let that happen often either. Over the years, he’d earned himself a reputation as a bit of a one-stop-shop for all knowledge on ghosts, monsters, demons, and generally anything that would make the local P.D. faint. Jo called him Ghoul Google. Bobby wasn’t sure what that meant.

The reputation he’d earned amongst the hunters had also earned him a reputation amongst the baddies. A week didn’t go by without some okami or djinn wanting a piece of the legendary Bobby Singer. His house was pretty much booby-trapped and demon-proofed, but some things inevitably got in.

Like the thing behind him.

“Hello, Bobby,” a voice said.

Bobby whipped around, gripping the machete and lunged. He wasn’t as young and spry as he used to be, but his reflexes were still as quick as a whip.

There was a man standing in front of him. He had disheveled brown hair, was slightly tall and of average build. For all intents and purposes, he looked as normal as anybody, but Bobby knew better. The shifter he’d just ganked looked an awful lot like the fellow who used to run the shoe store down at the strip mall.

The machete landed in the man’s shoulder with a meaty crack. It had broken skin for sure, gone through muscle, made it to the bone.

“Balls!” Bobby cursed. He’d missed the neck. Guess he wasn’t as good in the accuracy department anymore either.

The man stared down at the machete. His eyes followed the blade down to Bobby’s hand holding it, then up to Bobby’s face.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

Bobby took a step back. “Looks like I beat you to the punch on that one.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his emergency flask of holy water. Something that looked like a man, could get visibly hurt, but was obviously unfazed by injury had to be a demon.

In one motion, he popped open the flask and tossed its contents at the intruder. “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis…”_

The thing cocked his head. “I’m not a demon.” He then reached for the hilt of the machete and removed it from his arm without flinching. The flesh that had been deeply and horrifically cut instantly closed back together. It didn’t even leave a mark.

Bobby reached toward a nearby shelf and pulled down a red can of gasoline. He again reached into his pocket and found his trusty zippo. He quickly dowsed the creature in gas. The thing before him blinked rapidly as amber liquid got into his eyes. Bobby lit the lighter before tossing it directly at the monster’s flammable-looking trench coat. Sure enough, he burst into flames.

Before Bobby could blink, the flames were out. The creature was completely dry. Even the sleeve the machete had torn was as good as new.

Bobby decided to take an entirely revolutionary approach. “Alright,” he said. “Then what the hell are ya?”

“I’m an Angel of the Lord,” he said as if he were telling Bobby who was playing the Broncos that night.

“No such thing,” Bobby replied.

The so-called angel stared at Bobby for a good, solid minute. Bobby glared back. He wasn’t going to be the first to break eye contact.

“Yes, there is,” the stranger finally said. “I would know.”

If Bobby had been a man of better humor, he might have laughed. “OK then. Guess you’re here to smite me. Or maybe you’re gonna hand out some pamphlets about the Good Word.”

The angel cocked his head so far to one side, Bobby was afraid he’d broken his own neck.

“I’m not going to smite you, Bobby Singer,” he replied. “And I don’t have any pamphlets. However, pamphlets may have been an adequate visual instructional tool for what I’m about to tell you. Unfortunately, I hadn’t prepared any.”

Bobby wasn’t sure how exactly to react, but this was definitely going on his top five list for strangest interactions with the supernatural.

“You got somethin’ to tell me,” was what Bobby settled on. “So spit it out.”

The angel suddenly straightened his posture out a bit as if preparing himself for something he’d rehearsed multiple times before.

“My name is Castiel,” he said confidently. “And I need your help.”

*******

 April 23, 2010 – Sioux Falls, SD

“That’s him?” the woman named Jo said. “I thought he’d be… not as fat.”

“Hey!” Dean protested, defensively grabbing his belly. Sure, he’d let himself go over the last few years, but that little bit of chunk around his midsection wasn’t anywhere close to what any sane person would call fat. Besides, he’d heard the ladies say they liked a little cushion for the pushin’.

“Easy, Jo,” the other woman said, putting a hand on her shoulder. Bobby had introduced her as Ellen.

Bobby had come back to the house with Ellen’s Suburban trailing him. Dean had been out front when they arrived, surveying the junk cars Bobby had all over his property. Cas had stayed in the house, but Dean knew he was watching him closely from the window.  Dean felt like he was five years old and Mom was watching him ride his bike up and down the driveway. He hated it.

They now stood outside the house, the sky orange and pink as the sun set behind the rusty roof of Bobby’s garage. Ellen looked to be a bit younger than Bobby, a stern expression on her face. Judging by the same look plastered on Jo’s face, Dean figured they were related. Jo was about Sam’s age, so he guessed they were mother and daughter. A guy with a dirty blonde – literally dirty – mullet stood behind them. He scratched his chin like he had mites under his skin, and Dean figured that might very well be the case.

“The name’s Ash,” the man said, walking unsteadily up to Dean with his hand extended.

Dean shook it hesitantly. “Pleasure.”

“Now that we’re all properly acquainted,” Bobby chimed in, “let’s get on with the apocalypse. Dean, Jo, help me get these supplies into the house.”

Jo obediently went to the back of Bobby’s pickup and furled back the canvas covering it. About a dozen hard plastic crates were stacked on the bed of the truck. Jo unhitched the tailgate.

“You climb up there and pass them down to me,” she ordered, pointing at Dean.

“Whoa, whoa,” Dean replied. “What is all this, Bobby? We havin’ a kegger?”

Bobby snorted. “Supplies, idjit. But glad to see you got your sense of humor back. Ya still ain’t funny, but at least that’s more like the Dean I expected.”

Dean glanced at Bobby and decided to shrug off the oddity of that statement. The Dean he expected. Whoever that was. Dean had just met this man not seven or eight hours ago, and already he was talking to Dean like he knew him, calling him an idiot and all. But even more unnerving was the fact that Bobby looked at him like he was his long lost son and they were about to have a Maury moment, complete with tears and a box of Kleenex. Dean didn’t like it one bit.

The first box made it into the house with a lot of huffing and puffing on Dean’s part as Ash held the door. He smiled at Dean. That, too, was unsettling.

Dean let the first box hit the floor in the foyer with a thud. He saw Ellen with a paintbrush in one hand and a paint can in the other, drawing some strange symbols on top of some of the already existing graffiti. Squinting, Dean thought one of them looked like a dick.

He noticed Cas standing off in the middle of the living room, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. His eyes seemed transfixed on the lamp ahead of him.

“You gonna lend a hand, Cas?” Dean asked, slightly annoyed. All powerful angel and he couldn’t lift a finger.

“Quiet!” Ellen hissed, turning from yet another dick-like drawing. “He’s busy.”

“Busy doing nothing,” Dean murmured as he turned to head out for the next box.

Cas’s voice stopped him. “It’s done.”

Hesitantly, Dean asked, “What is?”

Castiel’s eyes glistened. He took a few steps toward the couch, looked at it like he wasn’t sure what it was for, then stared back up into space.

“Cas, buddy?” Dean went into the living room.

Despite all the shit that had happened, all the lies and secrets Castiel had kept from him, Dean couldn’t help but feel sorry for the little guy. The teleportation trick had obviously taken a lot out of him, but more than that, he seemed like he was physically in pain the whole time he told Dean about pulling him out of hell. Dean had no memory of hell. Not even a single, pitchfork-in-the-butt moment. It didn’t feel real. But whatever Cas had seen down there, bringing it up again had brought out something deep and dark.

“I heard the other angels,” Cas murmured. He looked down at the couch again. Dean figured the angel had forgotten how to sit, so he gently put his hands on his shoulders and pressed him down into a sitting position.

“What do you mean you heard them?” Dean questioned.

Cas looked up at Dean. “All angels can communicate telepathically, almost like a special radio. Most of the time it’s just buzz and prayers, but just now it was…” He swallowed. “Dean, I heard them screaming. My brothers and sisters. They… they’re gone.”

This got Ellen’s attention as she was soon standing right in front of the couch.

“You mean,” Ellen said, her voice sounding raspy with emotion, “the angels left?”

Castiel didn’t look at her. His eyes were fixated on Dean’s. But he acknowledged her question with a nod.

“Wait wait,” Dean said. “What does that even mean? They left? Left where?”

Ellen sighed. “Angels’ve been on earth since the dawn of time. Not too many, as I’ve heard. Just enough to keep an eye on the place. They usually keep things kind of in order. Some twister hits, they’re there to keep the human casualties down. Nothing too disruptive to the natural order of things.”

“My brothers and sisters do not obstruct Our Father’s will,” Cas stated plainly.

“No?” Dean said. “They’re not all like you, huh? They don’t go pulling some schmo outta hell for shits and giggles?”

“We don’t defecate, no,” Castiel said. “But some of us have been known to giggle.”

Dean could have had an aneurism right there and then, but Ellen’s voice somehow brought his brain back to normal.

“So they all just hitched up back to heaven?” she asked. She seemed like a hard woman, like she’d seen more than anyone had the right to see. Her exterior was tough as nails, but that last question betrayed her feelings. Dean detected a hint of worry in her voice.

Castiel stared straight ahead.

“If all the angels went back to heaven,” Dean said, “then what the hell are you still doing here?”

Castiel continued to stare at nothing in particular. “If you don’t mind, I would like to be alone now.”

Ellen nodded and returned to her bizarre artwork. But Dean wouldn’t budge. He waited until Ellen was out of earshot.

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” he said.

Dean didn’t know a lick about angels, but he assumed being one was probably pretty badass. Castiel had already displayed some immense powers, and Dean had no idea what else he could do. Dean also imagined that being an angel wasn’t exactly something you could take a brief staycation on earth from. He may not have been the most studious pupil in Sunday school, but he did remember something about angels rebelling and falling, as the saying went. He particularly remembered Lucifer being a prime example of that, but he might have remembered that mostly because he went through a brief death metal phase when he was 19.

Castiel’s blue eyes drifted upward and seemed to look at Dean without any particular focus.

“Dean!” Ellen yelled from a step ladder. “Crates go in the basement! Come on, get!”

Fearing another verbal lashing from Ellen, Dean hustled back to work. The supplies made their way into the house and down into the basement. Upon seeing the numerous weapons hanging from the walls of Bobby’s basement, plus the sturdy wooden chair with straps attached to it, Dean nearly sprinted for the front door, never planning to look back. Jo had explained that various monsters required various methods of extermination. Some of them preferred beheading, some fire, some an exorcism, some still only a special incantation and a sprinkling of herbs would do.

All the stuff in the basement was probably for that. Probably. Dean wondered how long it would take them before he ended up strapped to that chair with Ash telling him to squeal like a pig.

Dean took the last box down to the basement. He could hear Jo climb the stairs. He was alone. Finally.

He immediately reached into his jean pocket and whipped out his cell phone. This was getting too much. He could almost accept all this heaven and hell mumbo jumbo in theory, but seeing squiggly pagan symbols doodled on the wallpaper and a blood-stained machete hanging from a hook in the way most people hung gardening tools just made Dean anxious. He looked at his cell phone screen and saw zero bars. Of course there would be no signal in Leather Face’s basement. Fucking Verizon. 

Dean marched up the basement stairs after the last box was stacked next to a shelf with jars filled with a pickled baby sheep head among other things. Castiel was still staring blankly on the couch. Dean heard Ash’s voice rattling off outside, presumably talking to Jo and Ellen. Bobby was at the desk reading a tattered old book like it was quiet time at the branch library.

“Alright,” he said, storming up to Bobby. “I know I’m new to the frat here, but what exactly was in all those boxes?”

Bobby looked up. “I told ya, boy. Supplies.”

“Yeah, I got that the first time you grumbled it at me,” Dean said. “What do you mean by supplies? Supplies for what?”

Bobby squinted and the whiskers on his chin moved as he grinded his teeth.

“Hey,” Dean suddenly found himself angry. “You’re welcome for carrying your whips and chains down to your sex torture dungeon, but I’m not playing this game. You crazies can just go ahead and paint your walls with sheep’s blood or whatever, but I’m gettin’ the first bus back to Lawrence and I’m gonna tell Lucifer to get the fuck out of my mother.”

Bobby stood slowly. Dean took a step back.

“You listen to me here, and you listen good, ‘cause I ain’t in the mood to be babysittin’ you, boy,” Bobby barked. “This ain’t no teenage slumber party we’re havin’ here. This is the end of the world. As in the apocalypse. As in most of humanity crossin’ over. As in no more Big Macs or vidya games or wiffy or nights playin’ pool at the ol’ bar n’ grill. It’s every man, woman, and child for him or herself. You wanna know what’s in those boxes downstairs? I’ll show ya.”

Bobby circled the desk and headed for the basement stairs. Dean followed. Unclasping the lid, Bobby flung open the first box to reveal about a half dozen disassembled machine guns. He picked up one of the barrels.

“I know your daddy took you huntin’, but you ever fire a 7.62 caliber M60 machine gun?” Bobby shoved the barrel into Dean’s hands.

Dean shook his head.

“I’d say I hope you’d never have to,” Bobby continued. “But what’s gonna happen over the next few days, next few weeks, hell, for the rest of our lives is we’re gonna be fightin’ for food, clean water, maybe even toilet paper. Facts are you’re gonna be fightin’ with someone at some point real soon.”

Dean swallowed. “Are all these guns?”

Bobby smirked. “Hell no. When it comes to survival, guns only look good in TV shows and movies. Ellen’s the best shot I know, and even she misses from time to time. Eventually, we’re gonna run out of ammo. Ain’t nobody manufacturing bullets in the apocalypse when we ain’t even got enough power to boil a pot of water. The machine guns are the last resort. We got a mess of demons comin’ at us, we mow them down with special bullets with devil’s traps carved in them.”

Bobby moved on to the next box and flung it open. Inside were stacks of smaller, clear plastic boxes. Bobby picked one up and opened it.

“This here’s full of penicillin,” he said, then gestured toward another box. “Disinfectant, bandages, pain killers, surgical suture. I ain’t no doctor, but I sure do know how to sew up a wound real good. Jo ain’t so bad neither.”

He closed the smaller box and returned it to his rightful place.

“Now I got a lotta work to do,” Bobby said. “I understand you’re gettin’ thrown into the deep end with all this, but it’s sink or swim, Dean. You wanna go out there on your own, I ain’t gonna stop you. But you got two of the best damn hunters up there, a man who could make a radio out of a coconut, a fallen angel whose powers I don’t even rightfully understand, and – not to toot my own horn, but – an old man with more experience and knowledge on this stuff than anyone alive. No offense, boy, but bar fights and huntin’ deer ain’t nearly prepared you for the storm Lucifer is about to rain down upon us. Now, are you gonna shut up and help us out, or are you gonna continue your whining and go home to die?”

Bobby’s face was stoic, but Dean saw beyond it. In front of him was a man who had seen things Dean couldn’t even imagine in his wildest nightmares. A man he didn’t know, but somehow acted like he knew him better than his own father did. A man Dean who he had shown nothing but disrespect towards, and all he wanted was Dean to stay.

“I’m gonna stay,” Dean answered quietly.

Bobby’s mouth twitched into the briefest of smiles before returning to stern. “Good. Now, I ain’t talked that much in twenty-five years. I need a drink.”

Dean nodded. He needed a drink too.


	19. Chapter 19

December 13, 2006 – Lawrence, KS

They sat there in silence for what felt like hours. John knew it was only a few minutes, but he was measuring time by counting the number of breaths Mary was taking in front of him. He watched as her nostrils flared slightly when she inhaled, her shoulders slumping when she exhaled. He didn’t rightfully know why counting each breath was important. Maybe it was because he wouldn’t be able to do it ever again.

“We should tell Sam in person,” Mary said in a low voice after a while.

“That would be the right thing to do,” John concurred. “Fly him and Jess out?”

Mary stared down at the coffee mug in front of her. The coffee had stopped steaming a long time ago, but the mug was still completely full. John knew she couldn’t look him in the eye. He found it hard to do the same to her, so he was fine with just looking at her hands clutching the mug.

It was evening, the clock said half past eight. They’d been talking for about forty-five minutes. Talking calmly. It was many in a series of rational conversations they’d had over the last few months. John felt it was a welcome change to the screaming matches followed by the cold shoulder they frequently had over the past five or six years.

“Might be right. Maybe after Christmas though,” Mary said. “And Dean?”

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Course we gotta tell him in person too.”

Mary’s eyes finally lifted. She still had those laugh lines around them that made John want to fall in love with her all over again. But he couldn’t.

“I mean,” Mary said, returning her gaze to the coffee mug, “how are we gonna tell him?”

John clenched his teeth. As hard as he found it to look Mary in the eyes at this point, he found it even more difficult to face Dean. The boy was troubled. Brittle. Unlike Sam, who wore his heart on his sleeve, Dean shoved every miniscule glimmer of emotion into an overstuffed box deep in his heart. John knew this all too well. He knew this because the boy got that from him.

“I’m just worried he’ll do something stupid,” Mary clarified.

John had a beer bottle in front of him. It was empty. John saw Mary’s eyes move to it.

“You mean like drink?” The way John said it sounded defensive. He didn’t mean it like that, but he didn’t blame Mary if she heard it that way.

“Yeah, drink,” Mary snapped. “It seems to be the canned Winchester response to problems, doesn’t it?”

“I never meant…” John started. “I know I was never the best role model for the boy. But I talked to Dean about AA. Even offered to drive him. The boy won’t go.”

“Like father like son,” Mary murmured.

“Damn it, Mary!” John shouted. “Ain’t I done right by you? Ain’t I the one who provided for you, who bought this house, put clothes on your back? I may have a drinking problem, but I never once raised my hand to you or the boys! I was a good father.”

Mary didn’t flinch. “A good father? How about a man who disappeared for three days and missed Sam’s Math Olympics gold medal win? Or how about a man who stumbled in at three in the morning and chased Dean out of the house for bringing home a stray cat when he was seven? You call that being a good father? You even call that being a good man?”

John could have sunk into his chair and agreed with everything she said. That had all happened. He was a piece of shit alcoholic, but those were isolated incidents. Mary had to know that. She was just remembering the worst.

“I don’t need to hear this,” John said and stood from his chair. He headed for the front door.

His wife followed. “Don’t you even think about-“

John interrupted, “I ain’t drinkin’ anymore, if that’s what you’re worried about. I just need to clear my head. I’m goin’ for a drive.”

John grabbed his coat from the coat rack and hastily reached for the keys to the Impala hanging from the hook by the door.

“Take the SUV,” Mary insisted. “That Impala’s a death trap in this weather.”

Their eyes met. There were decades of shared experiences being replayed behind their eyes, both joyous and sorrowful.

“Hasn’t started snowing yet,” John assured Mary. “I’ll only be gone a few hours. Don’t wait up for me.”

He opened the door.

“I never do,” Mary said.

******

April 23, 2010 – Hell

“Oh god oh god oh god oh god!” Chuck repeated about thirty times as he dashed back and forth.

The room he was in, with its cold stone floor and black concrete walls, was about the size of the first apartment he had when he moved out of his parent’s house. In other words, it was small. There was a single, metal folding chair beneath the light bulb hanging from the infinitely high ceiling. Chuck couldn’t find a door or a window to save his life.

“Chuck, darling,” Crowley said, “calm your tits.”

Chuck rushed up to Crowley and grabbed the man’s shoulders, shaking him.

“Am I dead? Why am I here? How do I get out?” he demanded.

Not flinching for a moment, Crowley answered, “No. You signed a contract, damning your soul to hell. And the exit is right under the big red sign, to your left past the Starbucks.”

Letting go of his literary agent’s shoulders, Chuck returned to frantically running around the room, searching for the exit sign. He spun around three or four times, making himself dizzy, before returning his focus to Crowley.

“For fuck’s sake, man,” Crowley said. He shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his pointer finger and thumb. “Do you really think there would be an exit from hell? From bloody _hell_? And no, you won’t find any Starbucks down here, sad to say. Couldn’t get the franchise rights.”

Chuck grabbed the trim of the bathrobe and tugged it closely around his body. He then collapsed to his knees and curled up in the fetal position.

“This is not happening,” he mumbled, shutting his eyes. “I’m going to wake up in my bed with Natasha and Sonya curled up next to me.”

Chuck heard Crowley snicker. “Unfortunately, the good life has reached its expiry date. I’ve already told you, in quite sufficient detail, that that contract was binding, with the only exception being you translating that tablet.”

Chuck opened his left eye and peaked up at Crowley.

Hell. He was in hell. Until yesterday, Chuck didn’t even believe in hell or heaven or demons or Lucifer. They were characters in his visions and in his books, sure, but they weren’t real. His only other exposure to hell was reading the Cliff Notes of Dante’s _Inferno_ when he was a senior in high school. It was a story about some guy who wanted to get his girlfriend back so he waded through the seven layers of hell just to reach her. He remembered something about a circle of homosexuals not being able to bone, and then a lake of ice with a giant, frozen Satan. He was vaguely glad he wasn’t seeing any of that, but he figured this might be Hell Lite.

After all, Chuck wasn’t a bad person. His greatest sin was fornication, but come on. That had to be forgiven. This was the twenty-first century. No one waited until marriage to get jiggy with it. If that truly was a sin, then hell would be filled to the brim with souls.

Maybe it was the drugs. He did do a lot of recreational drugs. Which of the seven deadly sins did that fall under? Gluttony? Sloth, maybe, for all the sitting around on the couch watching reality TV while smoking a blunt? Again, if gluttony and sloth were going to send people to hell, then about eighty percent of America was on that path.

No, Chuck wasn’t a bad person. But he wasn’t a good person either. He gulped at that realization. He had money coming out of his ears, and his accountant told him to donate to charities. Oh, but not out of the goodness of his heart. His accountant informed him it was tax deductible. Crowley also assured him it would boost his brand image. The masses loved a good philanthropist, so Chuck donated to Chimpanzees Without Tire Swings or something. He couldn’t for the life of him remember the name of it. He suddenly felt like a stinking pile of shit.

But when it was all said and done, all of this excess, the sex, the drugs, the apathy, none of it was really his fault per say. It was the fame. If Chuck had stayed at his job at Blockbuster, he could have been a better person. He’d still have those painful visions, and maybe he would eventually settle to writing them down, publishing them at some small publishing company. No fame. No money. More time. More time to volunteer at an old folks’ home or a soup kitchen. He could have adopted a rescue dog.

It certainly wasn’t that he was, deep down, _not good_. Right? There was only one man to blame in all this.

“Why?” Chuck whined. “Why me? Why did you even come to me with that damn contract in the first place?”

“’Damn contract.’ How apropos,” Crowley sneered. “It had to be you, Chuck. Yes, I could have let you to your own devices. I could have come to you today, pulled a rabbit out of a hat to show you that I was the real McCoy, and demanded that you translate the tablet for me. But I don’t believe you’ve thought this out completely.”

Chuck sat himself up a bit. The floor was cold and extremely uncomfortable.

“Why are you here?” Crowley asked, sounding like a college professor leading a student to the answer of his own question.

Chuck shivered. “I signed my soul away.”

“Good lad!” Crowley reassured. “You signed your soul away exactly on 23 April, 2000. A ten year contract would mean the account would need to be paid, in full, by 23 April, 2010, today, yes? And why would it be imperative that you find yourself here in hell on this very day?”

Chuck searched for the answer for a moment. He knew he wasn’t the brightest tool in the shed, but even this one was fairly obvious to him.

“Because today is the day Lucifer comes back to earth,” he replied.

Crowley nodded. “And what do you think Lucifer would do with you, a prophet, the very day he had come back?”

Chuck involuntarily scratched his beard. “S-smite me?” he tried.

“Correct,” Crowley answered. “Perhaps you remember what Lucifer said before I so gallantly whisked you away. Do you remember?”

“He said,” Chuck replied, searching for the words for a bit. It was so incredibly traumatizing, Satan could have been reading the menu at Denny’s to him for all he knew. “I think he said that there was no where I could hide on earth where he wouldn’t find me.”

“Very good memory!” Crowley said patronizingly. “And hell, of course, is not on earth. It’s not entirely under the earth either, but I shan’t bore you with the geographic details. With Lucifer upstairs, so to speak, he has forfeited all jurisdictions over hell. Meaning, the new king’s mandate trumps old Luci’s. If Lucifer shows his blonde cougar self down here again, the new king could very well have his head on a platter. Demons may be individually less powerful than angels, and certainly the archangels, but one angel versus an innumerable hoard on our home turf, that bitch will go wee wee wee all the way home.”

“New king?” Chuck questioned. Maybe the new king would be a nice guy. Chuck immediately felt idiotic and naïve for even thinking that.

Crowley smiled smugly. “You needn’t concern your pretty little head with demon politics. Messy business. Literal mudslinging and literal back stabbing. Makes your CSPAN look as dull as, well, honestly, I can’t think of anything duller than CSPAN.”

Chuck involuntarily stroked the terry cloth bathrobe for comfort. “So basically, if I ever step foot on earth again, I’m toast?”

That sinister smile crept up on Crowley’s face. “Oh, you’ll be more than toast. You’ll be a hot brisket by the time old Luci’s done with you. He had been quite content with offing you swiftly and painlessly back there, but – I do apologize as this is entirely my fault -  with you skittering off into hiding, I’m afraid he’ll be none-too-pleased with you. I imagine he has a whole line of torture he’s scheming up special just for you as we speak. He may be an angel, but he most certainly had learnt a finger nail pull or two during his stay down here that would make Alastair envious.”

“Oh god,” Chuck cried, curling again into the fetal position.

“Afraid god doesn’t get service down here,” Crowley said, sounding slightly impatient. “Saying the Old Man’s name is actually quite offensive to us demons, especially in our house. It would be like me rolling up to your manse in the middle of one of your lingerie parties and exclaiming, ‘No more blow!’ You would be rather offended, would you not?”

Crowley’s words mostly fell on deaf ears as Chuck was breathing heavily into the terry cloth and counting backwards from ten. His therapist had told him to do that whenever he felt anxious. Chuck honestly only had that therapist because David Beckham had suggested it would do him good, an ear to listen to his special celebrity problems, like dissecting why it took him twenty minutes to decide if he should take the Porsche or the Benz to get a plate of $200 sushi. Chuck realized quite early on that the therapist was mostly just sitting there drawing circles on his notepad, but Chuck really couldn’t care less. It was a welcome change to the vacant smiles and nods many of his so-called friends gave him whenever he mentioned any real human emotion, especially anything unrelated to money.

When Chuck reached ten, he sat himself up again. “Alright, OK, so I’m in hell. OK, so um… what now?”

Crowley inexplicably had two scotch glasses in his hands. He handed one to Chuck. Without questioning it, Chuck tossed his head back and swallowed the contents of the glass.

“Technically,” Crowley said, “you’re not dead. We hadn’t the time to let my precious Growley rip your throat out. Also, technically, you are still a prophet. Thus, you are, technically, still valuable to me. So consider this a kind of waiting room until I sort all this mess out.”

“Like purgatory?” Chuck attempted, licking the last droplets of scotch from his lips.

Crowley chuckled. “Oh no, nothing like purgatory. You’d hate it there. Too many trees.” He sipped his scotch. “Now, you’ll sit pretty down here like a good little prophet while daddy attempts to pry that tablet out of the big scary archangel’s dishwater-chapped hands.”

The alcohol was starting to take effect as Chuck found his muscles relaxing ever so slightly. “And how are you going to do that?”

This whole time, in fact, the whole time Chuck had known him, Crowley seemed in control. Every expression, every gesture, every step he made seemed calculated. He was a stout man of average height with fine brown hair, eyes a bit too far apart and nothing about him that you would call threatening. It wasn’t his appearance that instilled a sense of fear in the hearts and minds of the most powerful people in the world. No, it was the fact that Crowley knew exactly what he was doing. He knew exactly what everyone else in the room was about to do. And he orchestrated all of it without anyone knowing.

But now, for the briefest of seconds, Chuck noticed a twitch just under Crowley’s right eye. It was nothing, really. It could have been an involuntary spasm, or some stray breeze had blown into his eye. Any other person would think nothing of it. Chuck, on the other hand, had known this man for ten years.

Crowley did not flinch.

“I’ll figure something out,” Crowley assured him.

Then he was gone.

And in his place, there was a raw metal door in the wall. Chuck leaped to his feet and rushed toward it. He stumbled, his bare feet slipping on the black rocks, but he eventually made it to the handle. His hands shook as he tried it. It was unlocked. Chuck pulled and pulled, but the door wouldn’t budge. He then noticed red lettering spray painted on the door reading, “PUSH, YOU TWIT”. He could have sworn it wasn’t there just a few seconds earlier.

Chuck pushed and the door flew open. He fell flat, landing hard on his right wrist.

“Ow!” he complained.

Looking down at his hand, Chuck saw that the floor wasn’t that black stone from the other room. It was a plush, velvety red carpet. Whipping his head up, Chuck found that he was surrounded by book shelves, a large leather couch facing away from him in the center of the room. A fireplace crackled off to his left. He rushed to it, warming his hands.

Chuck sighed. The fire felt wonderful. The irony of being comforted by fire in hell was not lost on him.

Sitting on the infinitely soft carpet, Chuck hovered his feet about six inches away from the fire. He sat like that for a few seconds, enjoying the crackling sound of the logs in front of him.

“What are _you_ doing here?” a voice came from behind him.

Chuck whipped around, nearly kicking the fire. Standing by the leather couch was a boy who looked to be about fourteen. He wore a turtleneck sweater and held a bowl in one hand, a metal spoon in the other. He looked none too pleased to see Chuck there.

Cowering, Chuck asked, “Are you my… my tormenter? Oh god, I knew this was too good to be true. Are you going to torture me for all eternity?”

The boy cocked an eyebrow and dipped the spoon in the bowl. He brought it to his mouth and crunched.

“I was planning on having a bowl of cereal, if you’re cool with that,” he said dryly. “Torture’s not really my thing.”

 “You’re not gonna… um… hurt me?” Chuck asked optimistically.

The boy stared down at him for a bit, crunching away. He swallowed. Then, in one quick motion, he pointed his spoon directly at Chuck.

“Kneel before me, for I am the King of Hell!” he proclaimed, his voice falsely deep.

All Chuck could do was whimper.

“Whoa, dude, relax, no king of hell here. I’m just a human like you,” the boy said. He put the spoon in the bowl and placed them down on a table nearby. Reaching out a hand, the boy said, “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m guessing we’re gonna be roomies, so maybe torturing each other’ll be mutually detrimental.”

Chuck grabbed his hand and the boy helped pull him to his feet.

“What is this place?” Chuck asked, examining the room. It was cozy with big leather bound books and several comfy-looking chairs, like the set from _Masterpiece Theater_. An oil painting portrait of Crowley hung over the fireplace. No windows or doors could be seen. Not even the one Chuck had entered through.

The boy returned to his cereal with a shrug. “Hell’s study lounge? Beats me.” He plopped himself down on the couch.

“How long have you been here?” Chuck asked, almost afraid of the answer.

Again, the boy shrugged. He scooped up a spoonful and shoved it in his mouth.

“Where’d you get the cereal?” Chuck didn’t know why that question was important, but somehow, to him at that moment, it was.

“Cereal just appears from over there whenever I’m hungry,” the boy answered with his mouth full. He pointed with the spoon at a table with a bottle of scotch and a few glasses on it. “Sometimes it’s cereal, sometimes it’s a burger and fries. One time it was pho. I think that’s pretty racist, don’t you? Give the Vietnamese kid some pho.”

“Why’s there scotch now?” Chuck asked, but he already knew the answer. He went over to the table and poured himself a glass. “Want some?”

The boy glared at him. “Dude, I’m sixteen. My mom would kill me.”

“Oh, right,” Chuck murmured, taking a swig before awkwardly approaching the couch. “So um… you’re really not a demon?”

The boy was in the middle of drinking the milk from the bowl. He came up for air. “Nope. Hundred percent human.” He put the bowl down on a table. It immediately disappeared into thin air.

Perhaps recent events had made him jaded, but the fact that a solid object disappeared into nothing didn’t faze Chuck anymore.

“My name’s Chuck,” he said, extending a hand.

“I know who you are,” the boy said, taking his hand anyway. “I’ve been reading up on you. Even read the summaries of your books, _Carver_.”

“Oh,” Chuck said with a blush.

“You’re kind of a big deal down here, just like you were up there,” the boy noted. “Not that I read those _Supernatural_ books. Seemed kind of gay to me.”

Chuck forgot how much he hated teenagers.

“So who are you anyway?” Chuck asked.

The boy leaned back in the couch and sunk a bit into the cushions. “I guess you could say I’m your understudy. A prophet-in-training.”

Chuck blinked. “A what?”

The boy rolled his eyes and sighed. “Basically, you die, I take over as prophet. At least that’s what Mr. Crowley keeps saying.”

“Oh,” was all Chuck could say. He cleared his throat. “What’s your name, kid?”

The boy frowned and Chuck immediately realized his mistake in calling him kid.

“Kevin,” he spat. He then rocked himself up to a standing position. Brushing past Chuck, he headed for a bookshelf and pulled out an old, tattered tome. He flopped it on the large coffee table in front of the couch and opened it somewhere in the middle. The pages had been cut out, leaving a large pocket in the book. There was some dried grass, something gooey, and a few other knickknacks in there. Kevin whistled as he took them out. He placed the spoon on top of all of them.

“On second thought, I’ll have some of that booze,” Kevin said.

Without thinking, Chuck handed over the glass with the last few gulps of alcohol still in it.

“So um,” Chuck attempted, “what are you… what are you doing?”

Kevin took a piece of chalk out from his pocket and started drawing something on the table. Though his focus seemed to be completely fixed on the drawing in front of him, Kevin smiled.

“I’m gonna break us the hell out of hell.”

Chuck gulped.


	20. Chapter 20

August 30, 1732 – Enna, Sicily

There was an old woman who talked to God.

Or so she said the few times she was actually lucid. She was often seen stomping up and down the hills near the path from Rosalia’s family farm house to the village some ten miles away. The woman’s hair was matted and gray, like a bird’s nest sitting on top of her head. She scratched at her chin and cackled when Rosalia walked by, pointing a gnarled, boney finger at her and spewing Latin. The girl knew Latin well enough that what the old woman was saying had nothing to do with what the young priest said to her in confession, nor was it anything she recognized from mass.

“That woman is sick,” Mama told Rosalia, stroking the top of her head. She took three hunks of cheese out of Rosalia’s basket and replaced them with a few bites of cured meat wrapped in cloth. Two chunks of cheese and half of the girl’s bread from lunch were also in the basket. “Give her this food. We must be kind to her.”

Rosalia glanced at the bread, cheese, and meat in her basket. Save for the meat, which Mama cured at home, the food was hers. She was the one who walked two hours in the hot sun, her bonnet soaked in sweat, with horse flies nipping at the exposed flesh on her forearms, to go to market.

It was nearing sunset. Rosalia approached the woman hesitantly. She glanced behind her to see Mama walking back toward their meager farm house.

“ _Deus_!” the woman barked amongst other nonsensical noises, some full words, some just sounds. _Deus_ was the only one Rosalia could make out.

Rosalia stood twenty feet away, her arms extended, holding the basket.

“Here, you ugly witch,” she murmured. She checked again to make sure Mama was out of earshot.

The woman’s head cocked jerkily to one side, but her eyes were focused on the girl’s. Rosalia stood stock still, afraid any sudden movements would send the woman into a wild frenzy, or prompt her to put a curse on the girl. Rosalia cringed at the thought of dying before she could even flower.

“You!” the woman said in Italian. “I know you.”

Rosalia gulped. Of course the woman knew her. She had to have seen her coming down the path every other day, sometimes riding on the back of Papa’s donkey cart, ever since she was eight.

The woman yanked at her own hair. “I have seen what you will do, child. I have seen it in my dreams. Yes, God told me what you will do. You… you…”

“Take your stupid food and go!” Rosalia cried, dropping the basket on the ground and getting ready to run home.

“Rosalia,” the woman’s voice sang, “you wear the skin of an innocent girl, but there are great things for you to come. Great, terrible things. You. Little Rosalia. The instrument of the devil.”

Rosalia clenched her fists. Granted, she wasn’t the most pious girl in the village, but she certainly wasn’t the instrument of the devil. She confessed to the priest at least once a week. She prayed. Like any normal girl of twelve, she had certain impure thoughts, but surely God would forgive such minor trespasses.

The wench took a few steps closer. Rosalia could smell her sour breath and dung-laden clothes. The woman must have spent many a night curled up in the hay of some barn.

“You girl,” she continued. “Feed the vessel. Yes, I have seen it. Feed the vessel of his brethren. The righteous shall fail and the wicked shall walk the earth. You. You will walk the earth again.”

Boney fingers grasped Rosalia’s shoulders, nails digging deep into her skin. Rosalia tried to wriggle away, but found the woman had strength beyond her appearance.

“Were I to send you to hell now,” the woman said dreamily as if to herself, “would I prevent it? Will the righteous triumph? Fate. Fate is set on parchment, but is it set in stone?”

“Let go of me, you bitch!” Rosalia cried. With all her might, she shoved the woman hard against her concave chest. The woman tumbled backwards, loosening her grasp enough so that Rosalia only stumbled forward a bit, falling to her knees.

The hill behind the woman was steep. Papa had told Rosalia when she was very little that it was the backbone of a dragon buried under the grass. She had to tread lightly on it, lest the dragon wake and swallow her up. As a child, Rosalia made sure she took small, careful steps on the dragon’s back. Now that she was nearly a woman, she didn’t believe in those silly fairy tales.

Rosalia brought herself to her feet. The sun was nearly below the horizon, but there was still enough light that she could see at the bottom of the hill, a short stone’s throw away, a lump of matted hair. The hair was covering the old woman’s face.

“Old woman?” she called down, her voice shaky. She treaded lightly down the dragon’s backbone.

The woman was lying on her side, her arms and legs bent randomly. Her head craned up, the back of it nearly touching her right shoulder.

One of her legs twitched and then was still.

Rosalia returned to the basket she had thrown down on to the grass. She collected it and went home.

******

April 23, 2010 – San Francisco, CA

Sam couldn’t move. The light of the flashlight reflected off the glass, creating a circular halo in front of him. He could see a head and see hollow circles he assumed were eyes. He heard the distinct sound of palms against glass. There was movement in front of him, then a banging on the glass.

He then heard Ruby’s muffled scream behind him. That snapped him back into action. He immediately turned and bolted for Ruby’s bedroom door. He barged in and flicked the light around the room. Ruby was standing on the bed, pressing herself against the wall and the headboard in fear. She was not alone. At the foot of the full bed was the figure of a man. The man’s focus seemed to be on Sam, obviously alarmed by the sudden noise of him banging down the door.

“Get the fuck away from her!” Sam said in the most aggressive voice he could muster.

In actuality, he was about ready to shit himself. Without thinking, he lunged at the man and tackled him to the ground, dropping the flashlight in the process. The man was quite a bit smaller than Sam, so he fell without much effort, the both of them hit the ground hard. While Sam was at this point quite close to the man’s face, he couldn’t clearly make out any distinct features, just the general human shape of his head.

The man let out a grunt when he hit the ground, then began to moan.

“Oh my god!” Ruby cried. “He’s one of them!”

Sam pressed his knees on the man’s shoulders, pinning him to the ground. The man’s arms flailed up, trying to grab at Sam’s face, but Sam’s long torso made it well out of reach. The bedsprings made a metallic sound next to Sam’s left ear, and he soon realized Ruby was at the foot of the bed standing next to him.

“Here!” she said, shoving something into Sam’s hand. It took him half a second to realize it was a knife.

Sam couldn’t think. The man was wriggling beneath him, obviously slightly dazed by the sudden fall to the ground, but quickly coming back to his senses.

The man. If that was what Sam could call him. After what he’d seen on the highway, after what he’d seen his own beautiful wife turn into, he couldn’t rationally bring himself to call these things man or woman. They were mindless bundles of cells with one purpose and one purpose alone: to kill. And if Sam didn’t stop the one under him, it was going to kill him and Ruby without a second thought.

Sam took the knife in both hands and raised it above his head. His eyes had vaguely adjusted to the miniscule amount of light, but it was difficult to see exactly what was below him.  He’s seen those things get hit by a car and walk away from it. What would it take to kill it?

He remembered watching a Discovery Channel special on freaks of nature, science oddities that were simply designed to shock the casual science enthusiast, not to educate. There was a segment on a chicken who had survived its head being cut off. Mike was his name. He was able to run about the coop like any other chicken, flapping his flightless wings when startled. The farmer fed him through his tiny esophagus hole with an eyedropper. The chicken survived for eighteen months. Survived, but what was he? He had the body of a chicken, sure, but without a head, he couldn’t possibly have any individual thoughts. He couldn’t be the Mike the Chicken he was before he lost his head.

“Nnnn…” the thing moaned.

The blade came down and met flesh. Sam felt a bit of physical resistance, but he pressed down until the blade stopped completely. The tip had hit the carpet. Something gurgled, and the sound of liquid sputtering out of a gooey pipe hit Sam’s ears.

A light shone from over Sam’s shoulder.

“Is it…?” Ruby started. Sam glanced at her to see she’d found the flashlight he’d dropped.

She shone the light down on its face. Like the others, it was covered in blood, its eyes vacant and wide. The eyelids soon relaxed and rested in a hooded position. Sam stared down at it for a moment. The gurgling had stopped and now the blood was barely trickling from its neck. He stood.

“You killed it,” Ruby murmured almost inaudibly. The light shivered over its face.

Sam breathed in shallow breaths, turned away, and puked the partially digested turkey sandwich on to the shag carpeting. Ruby leaped from the bed and delicately placed a hand on the middle of his back.

“You had to,” she reassured him. “He… he came in here through the window. The lock must’ve been broken. He was going to…” She quickly removed her hand from his back.

Sam turned around slowly, trying to keep the corpse out of his eyesight. “Did he… did he hurt you?”

She shook her head.

Sam straightened. “There was another one!” he suddenly remembered. “I saw him through-“

There was a rustling outside. Ruby whipped the light of the flashlight toward the window to find another face staring wide-eyed back at them. Within a few milliseconds, it bolted into the darkness.

“We should go after it!” Sam insisted, though his fear instinct was telling him to hide in the pantry and sob.

“No!” Ruby cried, grabbing Sam’s arm. “It’s too dangerous. We can’t see two feet in front of us, let alone enough to chase down one of those… things.”

Sam’s heart beat began to slow back to normal as Ruby’s firm grasp rooted him in the logical decision. He was, after all, just some paper pusher at a hoity toity law firm who just so happened to kill several strangers in cold blood. Oh, and the one person he loved most in the world. He couldn’t forget that.

Ruby went to the window and slammed it shut, the curtains fluttering from the sudden breeze. Sam heard the click of the lock before she returned to Sam’s side and dragged him out of the room. Obediently, Sam followed. Once they were safely out of the bedroom, Ruby slammed the door.

“Help me drag the couch in front of it,” she said, shining the light on the dusty fabric-covered couch.

“Wait,” Sam said, “you wanna stay here? With that… that thing in the house?”

Ruby shone the light on Sam’s face as if she were searching for his expression. He couldn’t make out hers clearly, but he could see her shoulders slumped. She was visibly exhausted.

She sighed. “Where else can we go at this hour? We go out there, who knows how many of those things we come across. At least in here, we can barricade this room so if the lock breaks again, they can’t come into the main living area. We’ll check all the other locks carefully and sleep out here together. If someone… something comes in, one of us can alert the other right away.”

He couldn’t disagree with that. Circling to the short end of the couch, he heaved it toward the door. The armrest just barely hit the doorknob. With one tug, Ruby tested the defensive capabilities of the door, then headed for the kitchen. Sam followed.

Again, he felt a flashlight in his hand. “Your sister sure has a lot of flashlights lying around.”

Ruby shrugged. “They must have a lot of black outs. This isn’t exactly the best neighborhood, if you couldn’t tell.”

They returned to the living room and sat nervously on the couch. Sam could imagine that thing reanimating itself and trying the door. The door would rattle against the frame, and by the looks of the fake mahogany, he guessed the door had a plywood core. Any grown man could shove his whole weight against the door and bust through.

Except the thing in there was dead. He’d stabbed it square in the windpipe. It had drowned in its own blood in a matter of a minute.

Ruby curled her knees into her chest and shivered violently enough that it shook the cushion next to Sam. “What are we going to do tomorrow?”

“I guess we could stay here for a few days,” Sam offered. “Wait until help arrives.”

Sam could hear quiet sobbing next to him. He put a gentle hand on Ruby’s shoulder. She obviously needed the comfort, but Sam needed the human contact too.

His thoughts suddenly drifted to Mom. When Sam was seven, he was sitting in the backseat of their old Dodge Caravan, his faithful blue stuffed dog Hero sitting in his lap. The car suddenly stopped, and Sam heard his mother gasp. She had glanced back at Sam, a reassuring smile on her face and told him not to move. Not to look out the window. He had nodded diligently, clutching Hero close to his face so his mouth was completely covered. Mom unbuckled her seatbelt and leaped out of the car. Sam obeyed her order of not looking out the window.

For about a minute.

He had pressed the button on the seatbelt and crawled stealthily to the window. It was slightly tinted to prevent the rays of the sun from turning the car into an oven, but Sam still found himself squinting. Outside, Mom stood by a man holding a woman. He could hear the muffled sobs all the way from inside the car. At her feet was a lump of red goo that looked like the cherry pie Dean had disemboweled a few nights ago. Next to it was a leathery Halloween mask. Frightened, Sam slid back in his seat, buckled, and put Hero up to his nose.

Mom had come back, murmured something about a “lamia”, and started the car. She quickly drove off. Without taking her eyes off the road, she reached back and put a hand on Sam’s shin. He had wanted to crawl on to her lap and tell her he didn’t listen and saw what she obviously didn’t want him to see. But he stayed put and let her drive.

“Stay here,” Ruby echoed.

“Wait for help,” Sam repeated himself. He stared out into the darkness in front of him. He was suddenly cold. Very cold. He crossed his arms over his chest and dug his fingers into his biceps.

“Tomorrow we should look for a working phone,” Sam suggested. “Maybe a radio. Like a CB radio in a truck or something. We could call for help. There’ve gotta be other people who aren’t infected, right? Dean! Dean called me earlier today, yesterday. He’s in Kansas, my mom too. If we can get a car and drive, we could probably find them. Dean may be a bit… unreliable, but he’s tough. I mean, we can’t be the only ones still alive, right?”

Ruby’s flashlight shone up under her chin slightly. Her cheekbones cast a shadow that made her eyes look black. With a click, she turned the light off.

“What if we are the only ones?” she pondered.

Sam sat back on the couch and clutched himself tighter.


	21. Chapter 21

November 30, 2006 – Pontiac, IL

Thursday must have been a slow day for churches. The mall would still have some after-Thanksgiving sales going on, and you could bet your house people would be in a panic shopping for Christmas. A nice pair of earrings for the wife, nothing too expensive, but just her style. That new talking Dora the Explorer doll for the little girl. _Candy Land_ for the whole family to play on rainy days. The husband would hide the presents in the back of the closet next to his shoe shine kit. No one would think to look there.

Jim tried to unzip his parka, but the zipper was stuck about halfway down, so he left it closed a bit. It was hot in the church, but it was certainly a welcome change from the outside. He made his way to a pew in the back and sat down, not bothering to cross himself. It had been a long time since he’d gone into a church for anything other than a handout.

He scratched his palm. The cold numbed some of the cravings, but he was still jonesing. He scrunched his face up slightly at the idea of wanting his greatest sin in a house of God.

He pressed his hands together, tightening his chest muscles as he closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of the wood and lingering incense.

He heard footsteps.

“My son,” a crackled voice flew into his ear. “Forgive me for interrupting you in prayer, but the shelter is on Moulton Street, just a five minute walk from here. I’m afraid we don’t have any food in the church.”

Opening his eyes, Jim looked up to see an elderly priest with a shock of white hair standing above him. His green eyes were world-weary, yet kind. He smiled comfortingly.

“I’m sorry, father,” Jim said standing. “I was just… I’m sorry. I was cold and I tried your doors, saw they were unlocked, and just barged in, I guess. I don’t want food, just…” He stopped himself and covered his mouth with a gloved hand. The shame was written all over his face in the scratches, bit marks, and scars near his lips. “I just didn’t want to be alone.”

The priest’s expression was nothing but sympathetic. He placed a hand on Jim’s shoulder.

“You are never alone,” the priest said plainly. “The Lord is always with you, even in such troubled times.”

Jim knew. He knew not in the metaphorical sense as the majority of Christians did. He knew because there had been a voice whispering in his ear, telling him to trust him, telling him he was destined to do good and be a good man and right all the wrongs and sins he’d committed against himself and his family. No, Jim was never alone.

“What if angels and demons are real?” Jim blurted, staring at the priest.

The priest nodded. “Of course God and the angels are real. Demons, well, that’s a matter of debate. I’m of the firm view that they are locked safely in hell. It’s the inner demons we have to wrestle with through our faith in the Lord.”

Jim looked down. He suddenly felt very hot and tried to unzip his parka again. It wouldn’t budge.

The priest’s mouth tightened as if he were deep in thought. He then relaxed into a smile. “I shouldn’t be doing this, but I’m an old man and my time on this earth is short. I wish to spend my twilight years helping folks like you, if you’ll allow me to.”

Motioning for Jim to follow, the priest walked carefully down the aisle toward the altar. He put his palm out, telling Jim to wait there. The priest was hunched over slightly, but Jim could tell he had been tall in his youth. His face had lines so deep in it, it was difficult to tell exactly how old the man was.

He disappeared through a door and emerged about two minutes later, something folded in his hands.

“We host seminars to prepare the unemployed for job interviews and such,” he stated. “The congregation donates business suits and ties.”

He handed the object over to Jim. It was a tan trench coat, a blazer, white dress shirt, and slacks. On top of the coat was a crumpled up blue tie.

“It’s not Armani,” the priest said with an amused grin, “but it’ll get your foot in the door.”

Jim felt his eyes water and he delicately stroked the fabric of the coat.

“Thank you, father,” he managed to say, though he found his voice weak.

There was that smile again.

“Things will get better, my son,” he said. “Have faith.”

*******

April 23, 2010  - Sioux Falls, SD

They sat around the dinner table, one big happy family. Well, if they could have called it a dinner table. There was the four-chair table, the desk chair pulled into the kitchen, and one person standing off by the fridge.

Dean took a swig of his scotch.

“Slow down, boy!” Bobby ordered. “We ain’t got any liquor store at the end of the world here. Pace yourself for when you really need it.”

Dean squinted. “You mean to tell me this isn’t the right time to get completely shit-faced?”

From the desk chair, Ash snickered. He stabbed his tenderloin steak with his fork and, without bothering to cut it, nibbled at the edges. Dean was pretty confident in assessing that Ash had been raised by wolves.

“Let the boy have his poison,” Ellen said to Bobby. “Lord knows tomorrow on I’m gonna be watching him like a hawk around your liquor supply. You too, Singer.”

Bobby grumbled something incoherent and returned his focus to the steak in front of him.

Ellen had made it perfectly clear that this would be the very last night they’d indulge. Steak, baked potato, homemade barbeque sauce, and apple pie a la mode. After that, it would be rationing all around. Bobby had about a two year’s supply of propane and even some kerosene on his property, which would power the generator to keep the freezers in the basement and garage and the fridge in the house going, not to mention the house warm in winter, and get the lights on for a bit when the sun went down so they wouldn’t go completely nuts. But other than that, it was lights out at 8 PM in the spring and summer, 7 PM in the winter. A couple of the cars would be fueled and loaded with four days’ worth of supplies. They’d take those cars out just to keep the engines good, but no wasting gasoline either. There was a well in the back that could supply water for them for about ten years if they were careful.

It was Bobby’s compound, but Dean was pretty sure Ellen had planned it all out. The woman was an apocalypse genius. 

While Dean was helping her marinate the steaks, Ellen had explained to him what exactly was out there. This wasn’t what he’d heard in Sunday school. People were still around, though most of them were infected with something called the Croatoan virus, making them more _28 Days Later_ than anything human. There would also be demons, who apparently had super strength and could possess just about anyone unless they had some tacky Five and Dime store tattoo on them. Ellen assured Dean he’d be getting the tattoo tomorrow, courtesy of Ash, who, she noted, was not a licensed tattoo artist.

As Dean listened, he realized what had happened to him back in Lawrence when he found himself in front of his house. He felt dirty and - by the way Ellen described demons abusing the unlucky bastards they possessed – violated.

“So this is like our last meal, then, huh?” Dean chimed in. “Least you people know what I like.”

Jo rolled her eyes. “Like you’re the only person in this whole damn country who loves meat and potatoes. Besides, this ain’t our last meal. We got plenty of years with canned beans and fire-cooked squirrel to look forward to.”

They finished the rest of their meal in silence. Dean figured these people weren’t much in favor of conversation at the dinner table, and he could easily live with that. He’d been the chatterbox growing up, but over the years, he found himself getting more and more tight-lipped.

Ellen stood as Bobby passed out some small plates and forks. A mile-high apple pie and a tub of Carvel vanilla ice cream made their way to the table.

“Is this heaven?” Dean said to himself.

“Hardly,” Castiel replied. He had been mute the whole dinner, and the majority of the evening for that matter. He simply alternated from sitting and standing, staring at a book shelf or whatever was in front of him. Now he was staring down at Dean.

“Welcome back, Cas,” Dean snorted before his fork found his mouth. He closed his eyes, moaned, then slapped the table. Dean swallowed and cleared his throat, a smidge of the apple juices lingering as he swallowed again. When he finished, he looked up and noticed Castiel staring down at him, bug eyed.

“Dean’s cleaning up in here since he made the biggest mess,” Ellen insisted. “Destroyed the last apple pie on earth. What the hell is wrong with you, boy?” She turned to the rest of them. “Bobby and I’ll take the first shift on the perimeter. Jo, go outside and clean the barbeque. We don’t want to attract any critters. Ash, get working on that CB radio. Might be other hunters out here who can join us.”

“Stick an ear out for someone named Officer Jodi Mills, if ya could,” Bobby said. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say the man was blushing.

Ellen glared at him. “Get your gun, you ol’ sonnavabitch.”

“I’m just supposed to stay in here and play house while you guys go do all the badass stuff?” Dean asked.

Jo smirked. “What, you think that’s women’s work?”

Dean frowned. “Don’t turn this around. I’m just saying, I got a keen eye and I’m a good shot. Anything moves on the house, I’ll get it.”

“Oh yeah?” Jo taunted. “You tell me what kind of weapon you use on a werewolf? Or how about how to gank a ghoul? You ain’t seen shit til you seen a wraith sucking the brains out of a living person like it’s a fucking McFlurry!”

“Language!” Ellen snapped, shooting a look at Jo. She then turned her focus to Dean. “Everybody’s got a job, and every job is important. For now, you do what you can. Until Bobby and me properly train you, you’re just a liability.”

“Liability?” Dean repeated. He couldn’t believe his ears.

The others filed out, Ash throwing Dean a shrug as he headed for the basement door. The only one who remained was Castiel, who simply continued to stare blankly ahead.

“Don’t suppose you got anything to do,” Dean said, heading for the sink. He turned the water on to a trickle, careful not to waste too much. “You wanna dry?”

Cas’s head turned toward Dean and he continued to stare. His gaze then went to the water.

“Just a little bit of water, just to get the sticky stuff off,” Dean reassured him. “We’re not filling a swimming pool here.”

Castiel took a few steps toward the sink and stopped. His chest was against Dean’s arm at an angle, touching him slightly. Dean furrowed his brow and turned his head, noticing Cas was still transfixed on the water.

“You wanna give me like two inches of space here, buddy?” Dean said, taking a step away from the angel.

“The water,” Castiel said dreamily. “What’s it like?”

Dean allowed himself too to stare at the water, then turned back to Cas. “Oh, you know, wet.”

If ever there was a moment where Dean could sympathize with a faucet, this was it. The way Cas was staring at it was not unlike the way he often gawked at Dean.

Dean quickly turned the water off and turned so his shoulders were square with Cas’s.

“Alright,” Dean said, “what the hell is going on? I get that you’re in shock about the other angels leaving you behind. I get if you don’t want to talk about it. But what’s up with this water fixation?”

Castiel eyed Dean. He seemed worried, which worried Dean too. All powerful angel and he was scared of a faucet.

“Dean,” Castiel breathed. “I think I’m… I think I require hydration.”

Nearly falling over, Dean coughed, “You’re thirsty? Why didn’t you just say so?” He opened a cupboard and took out a glass.

“You don’t understand,” Castiel said. “I’ve never been thirsty before. I’ve never required any kind of sustenance. Not water, not food, not…” His eyes glanced at Dean’s mouth briefly. “Not sleep. But suddenly I feel weak and dry, like my throat is about to close.”

Dean filled the glass with water and handed it to Cas. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of this. Sure, Castiel had had more than his fair share of alcohol, but never had he asked for a tall glass of ice water, not even after one of their binges. In fact, the bingeing didn’t seem to affect the man at all. Angel livers must have been at least ten times stronger than a regular human’s.

Dean handed the glass to Cas, the exterior slightly wet from running it under the sink. Cas took it hesitantly, keeping his eyes on it like it was about to jump out and bite him in the face. He slowly brought the edge of the glass to his lips and tilted it. Tiny amounts of water graced his lips. Then, the water level began to decrease rapidly as Cas started chugging. Dean saw Cas’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. A stream trickled from the side of Cas’s mouth and dribbled on to his coat.

“That was the most dramatic water tasting I’ve ever seen in my life,” Dean commented, taking the glass out of Cas’s hand. “You slow down there, Nemo.”

Cas blinked rapidly, seemingly unaware of the amount of water that had missed his mouth. “That was… refreshing. Can I have more?”

“I think you’ve had enough, pal. Want me to call you a cab?” Dean said mockingly with a smile.

When Cas stared wide-eyed and worried, Dean refilled his glass and handed it over. “I’m just kidding. Man, if you’re getting all excited about water, I wonder what you’ll do when you discover burgers or pie or sex or something.”

Mid-gulp, Castiel froze. He took the glass away from his mouth and stared at Dean, then frowned. “You assume I’ve never had sex.” Dean wasn’t sure if it was a question or not.

Dean snorted and returned to the dishes. “Just pulling your leg. I dunno, just assumed ‘cause you said you didn’t need water or food or sleep, you wouldn’t need…” He stopped himself. “Well, whatever. Your business. I’m not one to kiss and tell either.”

The pot Ellen had used to make the barbeque sauce in was sticky and Dean found it hard to get the bottom clean. He put all his muscle into scraping it, but it just wouldn’t come off. He furrowed his brow and decided to let it soak overnight. He was well aware that that was bachelor logic, but he figured one dirty pan wasn’t high on the priority list for end of the world survival.

He turned back to Cas. “Are you… you’re not hungry, are you? I could make a baked potato for you.”

Castiel looked off into a corner as if in deep contemplation. After a few moments, he replied, “I don’t think so. But I would venture a guess that I will be at some point in the near future, which means our shelter here will have one more mouth to feed. And of course that means our food rations won’t last as long.” He sighed.

The man – the angel, whatever – looked tired. Dean couldn’t even begin to imagine what he was going through. Humans were born hungry, wet, cold, angry. Mom had told him he was kicking and screaming from the moment he saw the light of day, that, at only a minute only, he nearly took out the doctor’s left eye with his tiny right hook. Having to feel thirst for the first time, that uncomfortable feeling that was essentially the body’s biological warning sign that said, “If you don’t drink something, you will die”, must have been torture. The feeling was continuous. Dean hoped Cas knew that as soon as he quenched his thirst, he would need more within hours. Cas would never be satisfied.

Dean finished the last of the dishes and hung the now damp dish towel on a hook by the sink. Cas hadn’t budged, except for when Dean had gently moved him out of the way so he could start putting things on the drying rack.

“Cas,” Dean said, “if you need to drink and eat, and angels don’t, then does that make you…?”

Those blue eyes were bleary. Dean knew that look. That was the look that broke something deep inside of him.

He shouldn’t have brought any of it up. He should have kept his big, fat mouth shut and his stupid, insensitive thoughts to himself.

A few years back, Dean felt he should have won some sort of Oscar for the performance he gave the day after Rhonda broke up with him. When he woke up in the back of his pickup, Castiel standing over him with the hem of his trench coat gracing the tips of Dean’s shoes, Dean certainly put on an act of pretending he didn’t remember a lick of what had happened the night before. In actuality, he remembered. Most of it anyway. Cas should have read through the lie, but Dean couldn’t blame him for being so gullible.

The lie was not just to cover up that he remembered, but that he had felt something he had no desire to bring up ever again.

Cas had helped Dean back to the pickup that night, cleaning up the pieces of a broken man like he so often did. Dean’s own hand was out of control. His mouth too. He tried to write it off as a drunken mistake, even mumbling Rhonda’s name in the hopes that Cas would think he had lost his mind, but Dean was mostly lucid. He knew what he was doing, the message he was sending. They were alone out in the middle of some corn fields with only the moon to light them, lying in the back of his pickup truck, blood alcohol level through the roof, ex-girlfriend probably sobbing her eyes out at home with her girlfriends… and he was...He wasn’t in control of his own body. He didn’t know what he was doing, even if he did remember the majority of what happened.

Blame it on the alcohol.

The moment Dean laid eyes on Castiel the next morning, he snapped, demanding an answer as to why he was such a creep for watching him when he slept, for being weird with a dude who couldn’t even remember which bar they’d gone to.

Cas had seemed hurt and confused. Dean hated that. But for all Castiel knew, he was the only one who rightly remembered what had happened that night.

“Sorry, Cas,” Dean tried to recover. “I know this is hard. Being thirsty for the first time ever? I can’t even-“

“Dean,” Castiel interrupted. “You’re right. I’m not an angel anymore.”

He looked down at the linoleum floor.

“I’m a liability.”


	22. Chapter 22

March 3, 2009 – Neighbor, MI

“Clearly you’re wrong,” Travis said dryly. “La Forge had anticipated the impact of the Romulan vessel, but there was no feasible way the engines had sufficient power to maintain the shields at their current velocity without sacrificing power to the forward phaser. The _Enterprise_ simply had no means of defending itself.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Kevin interjected. “Piccard could easily have ordered all non-essential crew members and passengers to the cargo hold, redirecting power from vitals in certain areas to the phasers. Resistance to my argument is futile.”

Travis snorted. “Whatever. You just can’t stand that I found holes in your precious _TNG_. When will you admit that _Deep Space Nine_ is-“

There was a knock at Kevin’s bedroom door. He flinched slightly.

“Come in!” he called.

Travis started collecting the textbooks and action figures he’d brought over and spread all over the floor.

The door opened and Kevin’s mom poked her head in, a huge smile on her face. She was a chipper woman whenever Travis saw her, always offering Capris Sun to Kevin’s friends. Well, offering it to Travis. Kevin didn’t have too many friends willing to argue the finer points of _Star Trek_ or discuss why _Firefly_ never should have gotten taken off the air.

“Were we too loud, Mom?” Kevin asked.

She beamed. “No, Kev, just letting you know dinner’s ready. Travis, did your mom say you could stay over?”

Travis was hurriedly shoving his things into his black backpack. “Sorry, Mrs. Tran. She uh… she said I have to be home by six.”

“Oh rats!” Kevin’s mom said as she pursed her lips. “Well, tell your mom I said hi. Oh, and tell her I’ll call her about book club tomorrow. I think it’s my turn to host. You know, she makes the best lemon squares and if she could bring those over, that would be great. I really need to get my hands on that recipe, but I know she’s like Fort Knox with her secrets.” She gave a big laugh. “Aw shucks, but you don’t have to tell her all that. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. You take care, kiddo!”

She moved out of the way as Travis rushed past her, not making eye contact. Kevin listened as he heard Travis’s footsteps running down the stairs, followed by the slamming of the front door. All the while, his mom was standing in the doorway, a sunny grin on her face.

“You brought that boy over here again, huh?” she said, leaning on the doorframe.

Kevin looked down at the carpet. “I’m sorry, I should have asked. I thought we’d finish studying before you got home. I… I didn’t even hear you come in. I’m really sorry.”

Her face didn’t budge. “You didn’t hear me pull up, open the garage door, go into the kitchen, and make you spaghetti and meatballs?”

Kevin shook his head. They must have been too engrossed in their conversation to hear.

“Well,” his mom said with a sigh. “That’s beside the point anyway. What did I tell you about bringing people over to the house?”

“Don’t ever bring people to the house,” Kevin repeated the words.

He had been careless. He should have kept his eye on the clock. He should have told Travis to leave as soon as they finished their homework instead of allowing himself to enjoy fifteen minutes of friendly banter.

“That’s right,” Kevin’s mom said. “Now, golly gee, since you disobeyed me, I’m going to have to punish you.”

“No!” Kevin jumped up from the floor. “Please! I’m sorry. I really am. It was stupid of me. I promise never to do it again.”

She shook her head. “Nope, sorry just isn’t gonna cut it, Buster Brown!” She pulled a knife out from a behind her back. It must have been in her back pocket, hidden from view by her cable knit, forest green sweater. She raised it momentarily then lowered it, letting it hover over her left wrist.

“No!” Kevin yelled. “Stop! Please!”

“Linda Tran,” she said in a sing-songy voice, “come out and play!”

Kevin’s mom blinked, her eyes fluttering a bit before she looked around her in confusion. Her eyes seemed to focus on her son in front of her.

“Kevin?” she said quietly, her voice weak. “Where… how did I get…?”

“Mom!” Kevin called, trying to get toward her, but something was pushing him back. He struggled.

The knife sliced horizontally at his mom’s left wrist. She screamed, her voice rattling Kevin’s eardrums. A thick stream of blood oozed from her skin. The knife dropped.

“Kevin?” she cried. “What’s happening? I can’t control myself. Oh god, it hurts!”

Kevin pushed his body forward, but couldn’t get closer than just out of arm’s reach.

“Mom!” he said, tears welling up in his eyes, “fight it! You have to fight it!”

The force of his own body caused him to trip and fall. When he looked up, he saw his mother smiling, blood dripping on to the beige carpet below her.

“Kev,” she said. “I worked hard on that dinner downstairs. It would break my heart if you let it go cold. Are you going to be a good boy and eat every last bite of it for me?”

He looked down at his hands. “Yes.”

“Yes what?” She was chipper. Always so chipper.

Kevin clenched the carpet until he felt like his fingers were about to break off.

“Yes, Mom.”

She turned and headed for the stairs, leaving a trail of blood behind her.

******

April 23, 2010 – Hell

Kevin poured the contents of the scotch glass over the handful of grass, spoon, scraps of paper, and other miscellanea. Chuck was pretty sure he saw a rabbit’s head, but he didn’t want to look too closely. He was standing a few paces away, wringing his hands and glancing around the room every so often as Kevin alternated between crushing the concoction with a mallet and murmuring a few words in something that sounded like Klingon.

Kevin stopped, closed his eyes, quickly exhaled and said, “Now we wait.”

“Wait for what?” Chuck asked, peaking at the mound on the coffee table. It now looked like the Compost Heap of the Damned, complete with bunch of pentagrams drawn in chalk around it.

“I dunno,” Kevin said, staring down at his work. He seemed just as confused as Chuck at what he had just done.

“You don’t know?” Chuck wanted to scream. He brought his hands to his temples and started to nervously pluck at the gray hairs that had been creeping in his sideburns over the last few months.

Kevin folded his arms over his chest. “The book didn’t say. I got the ingredients, memorized the incantation, but that was it. Not sure if I’m supposed to set it on fire or dowse it in water or take a leak on it.”

One of the big leather chairs off next to a bookshelf suddenly looked awfully comfy. Chuck plopped himself down, his fingers still pulling at his sideburns. He obviously couldn’t see where the gray hairs were exactly, but he could sense them. He just knew where they were. If he could just get all of them out…

“The book was very specific about everything up until this point,” Kevin went on. “Bramble from the Burning Bush, skull of a naralagus rex, a mouthful of the damned’s favorite poison… That would be the scotch. Oh, thanks for that one, by the way. I couldn’t get it on my own because I guess hell has a drinking age.”

Chuck blinked up at Kevin, which apparently irritated the boy as he sighed in that exasperated way only teenagers could manage.

“So basically,” Kevin began, “I want something to eat, drink, play with, whatever, all I need to do is think about it really hard and want it really bad and it gets delivered quicker than Domino’s. I figured that part out really fast down here. I want a bathtub full of Ben and Jerry’s, I get a bathtub full of Ben and Jerry’s. Probably the worst wish of my life, but eh. The situation sucked and who wouldn’t go immediately for ice cream?”

Chuck couldn’t argue with that.

“After about five or six binge eating sessions and playing through _GTA: Chinatown Wars_ ,” Kevin said, eying Chuck for a disapproving look. When he got none, he went on, “I thought, ‘Hey, maybe I should try wishing for a way out of here.’ I did that for a while. I tried thinking really hard about doors, or escape hatches, or a space shuttle that would launch me out of here, but nope. None of that stuff appeared. Probably for the best anyway. Hell’s space shuttle might’ve come full of xenomorphs or something.”

Chuck nodded, surprised at himself for finding that reasonable.

“One day, or night, I’m never quite sure without any windows or clocks in here,” Kevin continued, “I was looking through a bunch of these books. It’s mostly the classics. _Canterbury Tales_ and stuff I was reading in Advanced Placement English Lit. But I figured I could wish down some instructional manuals. So I thought really hard about a manual on how to build a nuclear reactor, just to see what would happen.”

Kevin stopped for a moment and closed his eyes. He breathed in and out slowly, his brow furrowed. Suddenly, on the very same table the scotch had appeared on, there was a massive tome. Kevin opened his eyes and went over to it.

“ _Assembly and Maintenance of PULSTAR Reactor Tenth Edition_ ,” Kevin read. “Oh they made a new edition since last time. Sweet.” He tapped the cover twice then returned his attention to Chuck. “Anyway, I tried to take it one step further. I started thinking about the parts for the reactor. Aside from the uranium, which I figured would be a really stupid thing to have in such close quarters, I was able to get a couple things I knew would fit in this room.”

He motioned toward a pile of metal in the corner. Chuck could barely change the battery in a smoke detector, let alone decipher what any of that stuff was.

“So you wanted to blow hell up?” Chuck asked.

Kevin glared at him, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. “Uh, no. I may be smart, but it takes way more than one dude and a ton more space to even try to assemble a nuclear _reactor_ – not a bomb, if that’s what you’re thinking about. Plus, I don’t have a death wish. I just wanna get out of here.”

“Oh,” Chuck responded, sinking a bit in his chair. He just got told by a sixteen-year-old.

Kevin continued, “So if I could get the book on how to assemble a nuclear reactor, and all the parts I needed, I could in theory get the book on how to escape from hell.”

Chuck sat up again. “How’d you know that book even existed?”

Kevin shrugged. “I didn’t. But I figured it was worth a shot. So I sat down and thought really hard. The nuclear reactor manual was easy to get. I knew what would be in it, and I was able to guess where it would be coming from. But this get-out-of-hell book was a wild card. I didn’t know if it was like a one page or a sixty million page book. For all I knew, it would be etched on the pyramids and I was about to get myself crushed to death.”

He went back over to the table with the mess on it and held up the book he’d pulled from the shelf earlier. It was about the size of Kevin’s torso with a brown leather cover. Chuck thought it looked like a prop from some cheesy 80s fantasy movie starring Fred Savage.

“Through a lot of trial an error, through getting more versions of Dante’s _Inferno_ than I could count, I managed to get this,” he said proudly. “It had all the ingredients listed in it and the spell. All I had to do was wish for all those things to appear. Man, the kitchen upstairs must think I’m into the weirdest shit.” He snickered. “The toughest part was that the spell had to be completely memorized and the writing on the pages scorched so no one would be able to use them again. Basically, there was only one golden ticket and I was going to take it.”

He placed the book back down. “But like I said before, that was it. Nothing else after what I just did.”

“Are you sure you didn’t forget something?” Chuck tried. “Maybe you didn’t memorize it completely.”

Kevin snorted. “Dude, I memorized the Periodic Table on Elements in five minutes when I was seven. I know pi to 150 digits. Memorizing random crap is kind of what I do.”

In all his interactions with teenagers, which, unfortunately for him, were many, Chuck had never met anyone quite like Kevin. The teens he came across were rabid fans, girls with braces and greasy hair, boys who wore plaid and tried to talk in gruff voices. His fans were idiots. They had to be, considering the content of his books. Two impossibly handsome brothers travel around America hunting urban legends and oogy-boogies from folklore? Before he knew the visions were prophecy or whatever, Chuck figured it was his subconscious playing out all the dumb fears he had as a child.

He remembered seeing _Poltergeist_ when he was eleven. He was at a slumber party at some neighbor boy’s house. The boy was cool because he had a TV _and_ VCR - in his room, no less. Chuck and two other boys were there, they put the movie in, shut all the lights off, and spent the whole time staring straight at the screen. When the little girl in the film first said, “They’re here!”, Chuck wanted his teddy bear. By the time it got to the clown, he wanted his mommy and a new pair of underwear.

That had to be it. That had to have traumatized him so much as a child, that he had those psychotic dreams. He was just a scaredy cat turned lunatic.

Of course, he knew better now. He was actually a prophet who had accidentally sold his soul to a demon and now he was hanging out in hell hiding from Lucifer while his captor searched for a tablet that would reset the whole world.

Yup. That thought was much more settling.

He glanced at Kevin, who seemed to be impatient with Chuck’s quiet reminiscing. The kid was sixteen and already seemed infinitely cooler than Chuck.

“Maybe if you wish harder about finding the last bits of this… uh… spell,” Chuck said, utilizing the terminology so commonly used in his books.

Kevin rolled his eyes. “You don’t think I tried that? I was thinking for days, weeks, I have no idea how long. Nothing. I was worried about the scotch part and figured I had to wait until I was 21 to get my hands on that. Man, of course hell follows American drug and alcohol laws.”

“What’s the last line?” Chuck asked.

Kevin thought for a moment. “It’s immediately after the incantation. _And your words unto the holy shall be heard_.”

Chuck scratched his beard. He wanted to look like he was thinking deeply, but in actuality, his mind was completely blank. It was probably a metaphor, but he was never exactly good with metaphors.

“Maybe you have to say it to a holy person,” Chuck attempted. “Like a priest or something.”

Kevin glared. “Really? That’s the best you can come up with? Mr. Best Selling Author gives me the literal interpretation.”

Chuck folded his arms over his chest. “Well, whatever. Don’t listen to me. But have you even tried wishing people down here?”

Kevin looked away for a moment. “Yeah, of course,” he said, his voice slightly strained. “But it didn’t work. Objects only.”

Chuck tapped his index finger on his chin. No people. But the words had to be heard by the holy. Who were the holy? Priests, nuns, imams, rabbis, monks, but no human beings could be transported to hell unless they’d sold their souls. Crowley made that very clear. Chuck figured once someone sold their soul, they weren’t exactly considered holy anymore, so trying to find a damned priest down there would all be for nothing. Not that they could freely browse around the fiery pits anyway.

But he knew of something holy that could come down to hell without damning itself.

He knew because he’d seen them. He’d written about them.

“Angels,” Chuck said.

Kevin perked up. “What?”

“Angels can come down to hell,” he said. “If an angel hears the incantation, the spell will be complete. I think.”

Kevin grinned momentarily, but then his face immediately fell. “How do you convince an angel to come down to hell? I can’t imagine they’re taking house calls down here.”

Standing, Chuck smiled smugly. It was his turn to be the know-it-all. “See, this is where reading my book would’ve come in handy. _Supernatural Book 8: Lazarus Rising_ , I introduce a new breed of the, well, supernatural through a new character.”

Again, Kevin rolled his eyes. “Oh god, don’t tell me. It’s that annoying chick. Kasaliel? All the girls in my high school think they’re her. Socially awkward, knocks stuff over constantly, unable to profess her love for Donovan…”

Chuck sighed. “Well, first of all, Mr. Crowley made me change what I originally saw in my visions. I didn’t see some teenage doe-eyed Zooey Deschanel audience avatar. She just evolved into that.” Chuck didn’t want to mention that Crowley had promised him that every lonely, frumpy teenage girl with a ton of spending money due to lack of a social life would relate hard core with this character. “Kasaliel was originally Castiel. Well, I guess, _is_ Castiel since angels and stuff are real too. Cas – with a C, not a K like in the books - is ostensibly male, vessel’s in his late 30s, still socially awkward…”

Kevin squinted. “Huh. Still in love with Donovan?”

Chuck blinked a few times. “His name is Dean, not Donovan. I mean, in real life.”

“Anyway,” Kevin broke the awkwardness, “how do we get an angel down here?”

“Pray,” Chuck answered. “But we don’t want just any angel down here. From what I’ve seen, which isn’t too much, most of the angels are complete dicks. They’re manipulative, powerful, cold, and will smite you like a baked potato in a microwave. We need an angel we can trust.”

“So call down that Castiel chick-dude,” Kevin suggested, sounding frustrated. “She-he’s one of the good guys in the book, right?”

Chuck nodded. “Good idea. Um…” He nervously stood from the chair then slowly dropped to his knees. That was how people in his books did it. Down on their knees, eyes closed.

“Dear…um… Castiel,” he said. “Who art in… heaven or… maybe on earth. If you’re real, you’re probably with Dean and Sam now. Um… if that’s the case, it would be awesome to get them to uh… protect us. They’re super badass and the devil is kind of after me so it would be great if all of you guys could…”

“Maybe just get to the point,” Kevin interrupted.

Chuck opened one eye quickly, then closed it. “So uh, Castiel. Hi. I’m Chuck. Chuck Shurley. And this is Kevin. We really really really need your help. We need you to come to hell, or some part of hell. It looks like an old study or something from a Hammer film. I don’t know the address, but uh… um… oh hear my prayer, mighty angel Castiel of the Lord!”

Silence. Neither Chuck nor Kevin so much as breathed for a solid minute.

“He’s not here,” Kevin whispered finally. He closed his eyes and knelt to the floor. “Castiel, angel of the Lord, I’m sorry I called you a teenage girl. I’m sure you’re really badass and powerful. And it’s cool if you like Dono- Dean. If he’s as cool as he is in the movies, then he must be a pretty awesome guy to hang out with. I mean, not that I would know. I’m not gay.”

Chuck sighed. “We suck at this.”

Kevin agreed. They both stared at the plush red carpet floor for a good solid minute before Kevin looked up again.

“Hey,” he said, “maybe Castiel’s busy. Maybe with the whole apocalypse thing going on upstairs, he’s being all kickass angel and can’t hear us. There have gotta be other angels who are cool, right? I mean, you said most of them are dicks, but maybe there’s some like angel accountant who wouldn’t be fighting Lucifer.”

“Yeah!” Chuck agreed excitedly. He then closed his eyes and clasped his hands together. Taking in a deep breath, he prayed, “Hear my prayer. This is Chuck Shurley, the prophet. I think I’m kind of a big deal to you guys, so uh… I need your help. I’m stuck in hell with Kevin, looking for a ride out. Seriously. I don’t even care who. Help? Anyone will do. Any angel, I-”

A hand was suddenly over his mouth. Chuck opened his eyes and Kevin was standing over him, a fearful look in his eyes.

“You idiot!” Kevin said through clenched teeth. “Not anyone! Don’t you know the names of any other decent angels? If you’re opening up the signal to anyone, that means-“

There was a fluttering sound, like a flock of birds had just landed. Chuck and Kevin both jumped and turned around.

Kevin went pale. Chuck thought he was about to be sick.

Anyone. Why the fuck did he say “anyone”? Any angel literally meant any angel. It didn’t matter if it really was some bean counter angel, the angel that made people who masturbated too much go blind, the angel that saved little kids from drowning in rivers, or the angel that sat on top of Chuck’s grandma’s Christmas tree.

No, of all the angels. This one was the one that came down first.

“Hello, Chuck. Hello Kevin.”

Lucifer smiled warmly.


	23. Chapter 23

May 30, 1990 - Lawrence, KS

The ball hit John’s mitt hard. He smiled.

“Good arm!” he called to his son.

The boy beamed, a string of snot running down his face. He hastily wiped it away with the cuff of his sleeve. He’d had a cold for about a week, stayed home from school a couple days, and was dying to get out of the house. John got home from work just before sunset and snuck the boy out to the park a few streets over. Mary had seen them and frowned, but John winked, pointing at the mischievous grin on Dean’s face. Fresh air would do him good anyway.

The sun was just barely peaking over the trees on the far end of the baseball field. Dean’s Little League team played there. Dean was a decent enough player, but the team as a whole wasn’t any good. At least the boys had a good time and especially enjoyed their trips to Showbiz Pizza after each game. 

“Alright, this one’s gonna be a homer, you ready?” John said, turning around to take giant steps away from Dean.

“Easy as pie!” the younger Winchester shouted from across the field, his voice getting more and more distant.

John hit the iron fence and turned around, seeing that Dean had gone clear to the other side. Now, John liked to think he was a decent throw, but the length of a baseball field might have been a bit of a stretch, especially with his back acting up from leaning over and reaching under the hoods of clunkers all day. He found himself staring down at the ball in his hands.

He smirked. He’d throw it as far as he could and get over the fact that he wasn’t as young as he used to be. He lifted his hand, the ball right by his ear, then slowly brought it back. He pawed the stitching, trying to find just the right grip to give the ball the best aerodynamic advantage. His thumb graced over a tooth mark left over from when the neighbor’s dog had snatched it while the boys were playing out front last summer.

Suddenly, something honked behind him.

Not a car horn, but one of those bike horns made of rubber and copper.

John whipped around to see a familiar bicycle on the sidewalk across the street from the park. It was blue with black training wheels. The wheels never quite hit the ground straight, so the bike tilted a bit when the boy riding it peddled.

“Hi Daddy!” Sammy called from across the street. He waved.

“Sammy!” John shouted. “What in the he- what are you doing out here? Where’s Mommy?”

Sammy flinched a bit and looked down. “She’s at the house.”

Mary would never in a million years let Sammy go all the way to the park by himself, let alone at dusk. Sammy must’ve snuck off when he saw John and Dean heading out with their mitts and the ball.

A fly buzzed by John’s head. “You stay right there! Don’t move!”

John started heading for the opening in the fence about twenty-five feet away.

“It’s OK!” Sammy said confidently. “I rode here all by myself.”

He started to peddle forward into the street.

And then a car.

“ _Sammy! NO!_ ” John screamed, sprinting.

The Marines had taught him no man left behind. A Marine sees another Marine in danger, he does everything he can to save him, even if his own arm is shot off or he’s bleeding from the eyes or whatever other hell Charlie threw at him. Don’t hesitate. Persevere.

But his own son. John’s own son.

“Sammy,” John said silently. He frantically looked up and down the road but saw nothing.

“Sammy, no,” he moaned, collapsing to his knees. “No. No… No… Don’t take my Sammy. Not my Sammy.”

He woke in that asphalt room again. As in, the walls, the floor, the ceiling were made completely of asphalt. There was a light bulb hanging from the ceiling so he could see just how tightly cramped he was in there.

John sprung up and punched the wall. His hand broke.

“You fucking sons of bitches!” he screamed. “What the fuck do you want from me? That was my son! _My son_! You fucking killed my boy!”

Every time the dream ended right there. Every time he woke up like this. John had lost count of how many times it had been long ago. And his screams never, not once, got a reply.

Until now.

“Sorry, John,” a voice said. It was neither masculine nor feminine, high nor low, smooth nor gravely. It echoed in the small room.

John whirled around, desperately trying to find the source of the voice.

“I think you might have forgotten that that never actually happened,” the voice went on. “You never took Dean out like that to play catch. When would you have found the time between work and happy hour with the boys?”

John clawed at the asphalt. “Where the fuck are you?”

“And Sam wasn’t killed when he was seven by some careless driver, was he?” the voice said. “But let’s just say this whole thing was one big metaphor. And yeah, I’ll be the first to admit we might have taken it a bit too far. After all, you’ve been down here almost three and a half years. Bet it feels like about 280 though, huh?”

John stopped moving and stared up at the light bulb. Only three and a half years. How? He’d had the dream, he’d woken up in this room, had the dream, woken up, dream, up, dream, up… for…

“I think we’re ready to end this,” the voice said conclusively. “That is, if you’re ready to get out.”

“How?” John yelled.

“Someone’s eager!” the voice seemed amused. “Alright, here’s the deal. I’m coming down in there to join you. I’ll be a giant, whirling mass of energy so it’ll be pretty hard to not go completely bonkers at the sight of me, but you’ll be OK. You’re dead already. I’m gonna yank you out of that metaphorical prison cell you’ve created for yourself and bring you back to earth.”

John’s eyes narrowed. He may have been half mad, but he was still as skeptical as ever.

“You’re wondering if there’s a catch,” the voice said, as if reading his mind. “Yeah, there kind of is, but you know what, compared to down here, it’ll be like an all-inclusive vacation to the Bahamas if you ask me. All you gotta do is say yes to a friend of mine. Whatever he asks you, no matter how ridiculous it might sound, you just gotta say yes.”

“Yes to what?” John wanted to ask, but soon found himself mute.

There was dirt in his mouth. It was dark all around him.

He was out of his cell.

******

April 24, 2010 - San Francisco, CA

The house looked different in the daylight. It looked more like… a house, rather than a den of darkness and fear. The walls had burnt orange and brown wallpaper that was pealing in the corners, the carpet stained with years of neglect and cigarette residue. There was a sandstone-lined fireplace in the center of the wall with an iron grate around it to keep the embers from escaping, but it was obvious no one had used it in years.

The brown, dusty couch was lumpy. That much Sam could tell without the daylight. It was still pushed up against the bedroom door, the armrest underneath the door knob. Nothing had moved all night, including Sam. He’d spent the majority of the night staring into the blackness where the door was, waiting. He expected it to move. To shudder. To do something that would send him and Ruby running out in to the night.

But it didn’t.

They ate the remainder of the cold cuts for breakfast. The fridge was already starting to feel a bit warmer than normal, so they decided to eat what would go bad first. Sliced turkey was probably the first culprit, followed by the ice cream in the freezer. Neither of them much felt like pistachio, so they left it. The rest of the frozen fare would be edible once thawed. Frozen French fries, a couple TV dinners. There were some hamburger paddies, but they’d need a grill or a stove for that. Ruby tried the gas for a minute, but it quickly went out.

Ruby found an old city map in one of the junk drawers in the kitchen. Sam poured over it, looking for disaster relief centers. There were some earthquake refuge areas, probably in case people’s homes were destroyed, and he figured people would be held up there. The nearest center was on the outskirts of the city. He estimated it would be about a three hour walk if they didn’t run into any trouble. But then he spotted a police station about a mile from where they were.

“I think we should try for here,” he said, pointing at the map. “There has to be at least one police officer there, or someone who can help us. And if there isn’t, then we’ll at least have a radio. We could try to contact other people.”

Ruby nodded solemnly. She hadn’t said much all morning. She merely went around the house looking through drawers and closets, creating a pile of supplies in the center of the living room by the couch. Neither of them had the courage to venture in the room with the corpse. They tried to ignore the faint stench around the area near the door.

They stuffed a backpack they’d found in the man’s bedroom with supplies. Some food, bottles of water, a Swiss Army knife in Sam’s bag, flashlights, a first aid kit, a pair of heavy-duty gardening gloves, and of course the map. Sam had gone camping many times before, but never in his life had he packed for the end of the world. He figured they’d need to run a lot again today, so the lighter the bag, the better. Besides, the police station wasn’t far.

“I guess we should go,” Sam said as he slung the backpack over his shoulder.

“Wait!” Ruby said, handing Sam a large kitchen knife.

He dropped it like it was on fire and backed away.

“We need protection,” she insisted. “Those things… We can’t outrun them forever. Eventually they’re going to catch up with us.” She didn’t need to finish her thought. She knelt down and picked up the knife Sam had dropped, placing it back into his hand. Her hand lingered over his for a bit before she hastily pulled it away.

He tucked the knife into a side pocket in his backpack. His feet took him to the front door. Slowly, he pulled back the curtains about an inch, just enough to peak outside. The street was empty, the grass yellow and dry. Ruby checked the other window.

“The coast is clear,” she said.

Sam nodded. Taking a deep breath, he reached for the door handle and unlocked it. The door opened. It was quiet. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound. Sam scanned the area for a minute. He took his first hesitant step outside.

He heard his shoes hit the cement on the front step. Well, they weren’t his shoes. He was just borrowing them from Ruby’s sister’s…whoever. Husband. He was going to settle on husband. Now was not the time to ask personal questions.

They headed for the street. A tree rustled in the wind and they both jumped.

“We have to keep an eye out for those things,” Sam said, clutching the straps on his shoulders. “And we can’t stop. I sort of memorized the way to the police station, but even when I take a look at the map, we have to be on high alert.”

Ruby nodded, though her gaze was on the houses around her rather than on Sam.

They walked mostly in silence, Sam only speaking to let Ruby know they were going to turn down this street or that. It took them about thirty minutes before they spotted a brown brick building with the words Police Department District 71 on the side. Sam glanced at Ruby the moment he saw it and she was smiling. They quickened their pace and went up to the glass doors.

Sam pushed and pulled at the handle.

“Locked,” he said. He pressed his face against the glass, using his hands to block out the reflection of the sun’s rays.

“Now what?” Ruby asked.

Sam banged on the glass. The sound was much louder than he anticipated, and it echoed down the empty street. Ruby and Sam turned around hesitantly to see if it had attracted some unwanted attention. They waited for a moment before returning to the door.

“There’s no one in there,” Ruby said, disappointment in her voice.

Sam shook his head. “This makes no sense. Last night was chaos. Those zombie things were everywhere and now the city’s dead. And this police station. Even if there was no law and order, you’d think someone would at least try to loot this place. It’s full of guns and drugs and stuff. It would be a free-for-all without the cops around. This door seems to be the only way in, but there isn’t a scratch on it. And another thing, why is it locked? Why would the police leave and lock the place? Wouldn’t they-“

“Stand back,” Ruby interrupted.

Sam saw her come up beside him out of the corner of his eye, a large rock in her hands.

“What are you doing?” Sam demanded.

“If no one’s in there, that means no one can help us,” Ruby answered. “But like you said, there are supplies. Guns… I don’t know about. I’ve never even touched a gun in my life. But there has to be stuff like riot gear and emergency rations, medical kits, and the police radio. Plus, we could hole up here. It’ll be way safer than my cousin’s house. We’ll break this door, but we can fix it. And there’s gotta be some sort of lock down system on the holding cells inside, right? It’s meant for keeping people in, but we could use it to keep those zombies out.”

Sam swallowed hard. She was right. Aside from the glass door they were standing by, there were no other windows or doors in the front. He assumed there might be some service entrance in the back, but that door was probably made of metal. The house wasn’t safe. One of those things had gotten in, and if Sam hadn’t stopped it, the situation could have been much, much worse.

Sam swung his backpack around to his front and unzipped it. He pulled out the heavy-duty gardening gloves and put them on.

“I’ll do it,” he volunteered. “Stand over there, I guess. Yeah. That should be good.”

He turned his face away and chucked the rock. It merely cracked the glass.

“Throw it harder,” Ruby suggested.

Sam picked the rock back up and tried again. The glass cracked a bit more.

He kept trying until finally he heard the sweet sound of glass shattering in front of him. He then used the rock to punch out some of the sharp bits around the door frame. 

They stepped through into a short hallway and found a wall about ten feet in front of them with Plexiglas over what looked like a reception desk. Sunlight from the broken door illuminated the hall, but beyond that, it was difficult to see. Ruby shone the flashlight through the glass and they could see desks, chairs and computers on the other side. Stacks of paper piled on each desk. Sam briefly wondered what happened to everyone he knew at his office. Well, he knew what happened to Katz.

“Hello?” Sam called. “Anyone here?” No answer.

There were two wooden doors on either side. Sam tried to open each of them, but they were locked. Ruby shone the flashlight around the reception desk before reaching through the small window. She pulled out a set of keys triumphantly.

After a few attempts, one of the keys unlocked the door to the left. Ruby opened the door a crack and shone her flashlight through. Looking over the top of her head, Sam could see it led to the area with all the computers. It was empty.

They went in slowly, shining their flashlights in every corner. Sam’s heart was racing.

When he was fourteen, Dean had dragged him to a local haunted barn about a week before Halloween. The gimmick was that a serial killer had renovated a cow barn to make it into a torture chamber of evil. Sam hated Halloween, but he especially hated haunted anything, even though he intellectually knew it was fake. He suspected Dean had just brought him along to watch him squirm, then laugh mercilessly at him later. He was right in assuming that would be Sam’s reaction. When they got to the entrance, a man dressed as a scarecrow – probably a local high school theater geek – rattled off the story of Farmer Joe and his thirst for human blood. A girl dressed as a half-digested corpse popped out at them and Sam went running. It took Dean twenty minutes before he could find him by the hot cider and apple donuts truck parked by the barn. A woman Mom worked with had recognized him and bought him a donut.

“They just left it,” Ruby commented, the light of her flashlight scanning the desks. “It’s like they just left for the weekend.”

Sam grunted in reply. He glanced at the manila envelopes and printers and coffee mugs and wondered why he ever felt the need to escape that life.

“Look!” Ruby exclaimed, rushing to the reception desk. Her light shone over a box with a curly cord.

“Is that a radio?” Sam asked. He shone his flashlight on it too and immediately looked for the on switch. Most police radios relied on electrical power, but some of them had to be battery powered in case of emergencies. Sam would count this as a definite emergency.

He found the switch. Suddenly, there was static. He looked at Ruby and grinned.

Sitting at the desk, he began to fiddle with the dials. The radio hissed and whined as he changed channels, but no human voices came through. He picked up the receiver and held down the button. The radio clicked.

“Um,” he spoke into the device, “is there anyone out there?”

He eased his finger off the button. He didn’t dare breathe as they waited for a response.

“Come in?” he tried. “This is Sam Winchester and Ruby…” He suddenly realized he didn’t know Ruby’s last name.

“Palermo,” she said to save him.

“Ruby Palermo,” Sam said. “We’re in the SFPD District 71, um, building.”

He let go of the button. Static was the only response.

“Keep trying,” Ruby said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Sam repeated the message a few times, waiting about thirty seconds between them for a reply. Each time they were greeted with static.

Ruby sighed. “We have to keep trying.” She glanced around the room. “I bet this place has some sort of backup generator. You know, in case of a power outage or a fire or earthquake or something. I wonder why it didn’t turn on.”

“Maybe someone turned it off,” Sam replied, turning his attention away from the radio.

Ruby audibly gulped then straightened herself up. “I’m going to try to find the circuit breaker.”

Sam glanced up at her. “I’ll go with you.”

“No,” she said, “we can’t risk missing someone trying to contact us. One of us should be near the radio at all times.”

She had a point. It still didn’t mean Sam liked the idea of her going around the building alone. “I can go,” Sam volunteered.

She patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll be fine. I grabbed a knife too. And hopefully the six weeks of self-defense training I took last year will come in handy. If I’m not back in ten minutes, come look for me.”

Sam nodded. She headed out the door. Sam could see her cross the hall to the door on the opposite side, trying each of the keys on that lock. When she finally got the right one, she waved to him and went in.

Sam stared at the broken door to the outside in the distance. It was wise to stay near the radio, but he also had to keep an eye out for any intruders. They’d made a lot of noise breaking the glass. Hopefully it hadn’t garnered any attention from any zombies in the area.

He tried to radio again, but his mind was otherwise occupied. Ruby was putting so much trust in him, yet she had no reason to. In fact, she had more of a reason not to trust him. In the short time she’d known him, he’d already killed two people, one of whom was his wife. Who could trust a man who could so easily break his own wife’s neck?

His hands shook. It had been less than twenty-four hours ago, yet it felt like an eternity. Jessica’s face burned in his memory. But it was distant. Like he was looking at old photographs on the fireplace mantel at home. He knew those faces so well, but he only knew them in that context. He knew Jessica’s face, covered in her own blood, snapping, snarling, blonde hair stained and matted. He knew her face so well.

“…copy?”

A voice. Not his own. Not Ruby’s. Another human being’s voice came out of the radio. It was full of static and unclear, but it was a human voice nonetheless.

Sam nervously held down the button. “Yes! Yes! I copy. Who’s there?”

“Oh thank god,” the voice said. “I thought I was the last man on earth.”

Sam laughed in relief. “No! No, you’re not. There are two of us here.”

“They got my friend,” the voice said. “We were driving all night. We almost made it too. But those things, they… they ripped him to shreds.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “Are you injured?”

“Naw,” the voice said. He sounded shaky. Sam couldn’t blame him. “What’s your location, partner?”

“San Francisco PD District 71,” Sam said quickly. “Where are you? Can you get here?”

“San Francisco?” the voice repeated. “Fuck, I think I’m way far out. Found some abandoned semi on the highway. I didn’t think these CB radio things could get police radio. You a cop?”

“No,” Sam said.

“Good, good,” the voice said with an audible sigh. “I don’t get along too good with cops. Not that I’m a bad dude. Just got a couple DUIs.”

“You said you have a car,” Sam said. “Can you get here? We think this place is safe for now.” In all honesty, Sam just wanted more people around.

“I’m not sure,” the voice answered. “I was following road signs all the way from Kansas. That was pretty tricky. It’s funny how hopeless we are without GPS. Anyway, the road signs are all scorched, like they pissed an arsonist off. I’ve been driving around in circles for hours. At least I think I have. Can’t find a damn road sign to save my life.”

“Kansas?” Sam said. His stomach went in knots.

“Yeah, yeah,” the voice said. “I know. We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto. Haven’t heard that one a million times.”

“No, I mean,” Sam said hastily. “I grew up in Kansas. I have family there now.”

“Small world,” the voice said. Sam wasn’t sure if he was sarcastic or not.

“Lawrence, Kansas, actually,” Sam tried.

There was only static.

“Um, copy?” Sam asked.

“What’s your name?” the voice asked. He sounded a bit less clear now, but Sam could still make out the words.

He replied quickly. “Sam Winchester.”

He waited. Nothing

“Who are you?” Sam asked.

No reply. Just static.

“Do you copy?” Sam practically yelled into the receiver. “What’s your name? Who are you?”

“Sam, holy shit,” the voice said finally. He sounded breathless.

“ _What’s your name?_ ” This time, Sam really did yell.

“It’s me, Sam,” the voice said from far away. “It’s Dean.”


	24. Chapter 24

September 1, 1994 – Lawrence, KS

Sam squirmed on the brown leather of the bus seat. His brand new jeans were uncomfortable, tight in the wrong places. The kid models on the posters at Sears were all wearing acid washed jeans that were supposed to be a bit tight. Sam wanted to look cool this year. It was his first year of junior high school and he was going to stride down those halls a new man. Mom had said things changed in junior high. He could start fresh. Besides, that Hank “Swirly King” Schmidt wasn’t going to be there. He got sent off to military academy. Sam grinned at the thought. At least that bully was gone.

Sam took a quick look behind him. He was sitting in the front of the bus with the rest of the sixth graders. The junior high and high schools were right next to each other, so some buses conveniently had high school kids in them. The bus that went to the Winchesters’ street just happened to be one of them. That meant he was sharing a bus with the biggest bully he knew.

In the back of the bus, an arm around some brunette, was Dean. The sides of his head were shaved, his dirty blonde hair floppy on the top. He had his feet up on the seat across the aisle from him. The girl next to him giggled after Dean said something. He looked so cool. Sam clutched his new backpack in envy.

The bus stopped and some kid with massively thick glasses and horrendous acne came on.

“Grease pan!” a couple kids somewhere in the middle shouted.

The boy who just came on shrunk into the seat across the aisle from Sam.

“Have a good summer, grease pan?” some faceless voice shouted. “Heard from your mom you got hemorrhoids!”

There was a wave of laughter behind them. The kid shrunk deeper into the seat, staring straight ahead.

Sam leaned over and said quietly, “Hey, don’t listen to them. They’re jerks.”

The kid glanced over at him and for a second and smiled.

“I’m Sam,” he said. “Sixth grade.”

“Cody,” the kid replied quietly. “Seventh.”

“Cool,” Sam said with a smile.

Suddenly, a face popped up between the seats. “What’s this? Grease pan got a girlfriend?”

Another bout of laughter.

Sam frowned. “You guys, leave him alone.”

“Whoa there, tough guy!” another boy said, popping up over the back of Sam’s seat. “Didn’t mean to offend your boyfriend!”

Sam wasn’t going to dignify that with a response.

“Silent treatment?” the same boy said. He whacked the top of Sam’s head with his open palm. Sam flinched and ducked down into his seat.

“Hey!” Sam said. “Don’t!”

“Yeah, sure, OK,” the kid said before whacking him again. It wasn’t exactly painful, but it was enough to be annoying.

The bus thankfully pulled up to the school and parked. The kids filed out and Sam turned back momentarily to watch as Dean started to head toward the high school a block away. He sighed, wanting to say something, but knew his dweebiness would only ruin Dean’s cool. Just as he turned to head for the junior high entrance, Sam felt a tug on his backpack. He fell backward on to the grass.

“Oops, sorry, princess!” It was that kid who had whacked his head a minute earlier. He was flanked by two other kids, each of them snickering.

There was a lot of confusion on the front lawn of the school. It was the first day, after all. The teachers would be busy directing the new kids to their first period classrooms, other kids would be comparing schedules with their friends. No one would really notice a short, puny kid lying on his back in the middle of it all.

One of the kids knelt down and took a handful of grass, ripping it out of the ground. He then started grinding it into Sam’s face. As the other two laughed, Sam threw his arms up and tried to push him away.

His mouth was full of grass when he yelled, “Help!”

No one heard him. The other two now grabbed his arms and held him down. The third continued to pile grass in his mouth.

Sam coughed, his eyes closed tight to keep the excess blades of grass from getting in, and without realizing what he was saying, screamed, “Dean!”

“Dean? Who’s that? Looks like grease pan’s girlfriend is cheating on-“ the kid was suddenly cut off as he was yanked by the collar about a foot off the ground. The other two dispersed into the crowd.

“You touching my brother?” Sam heard Dean’s voice.

Sam opened his eyes, the sun suddenly extremely bright, shining behind his brother’s head. Sam shielded his eyes.

“No, sir!” the boy in Dean’s grip said. “We were just foolin’ around.”

Dean put the kid down on the ground and grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

“You listen to me and you listen good because I ain’t repeating myself,” Dean said. “This here’s Sam Winchester.” The kid looked down at Sam on the ground. “Oh yeah, that’s right. He’s a Winchester. Meaning he’s my little brother. Ain’t nobody get to beat him up except me. You feel?”

“Yes, sir,” the kid said shakily. Dean let him go and he went off running.

Sam sighed and pulled himself to his feet. Dean had his back to him, watching the kid run off with his tail between his legs.

“Dean,” Sam said with a smile. “Thanks. I-“

“Don’t,” Dean interrupted, not bothering to turn around. “I got a reputation to uphold. I saved your ass this time, but next time, you’re on your own. From now on, you man up.”

Dean walked off toward the high school. The brunette stood in the distance, her smile wide like Dean had just adopted a puppy for her.

Sam brushed himself off. He looked at his new digital watch. The morning bell was about to ring.

******

April 24, 2010 – Sioux Falls, SD

“Ash Miles Fulton, you sit your ass down, boy!” Ellen yelled, waving a pair of metal scissors. She was standing in the kitchen, a chair in the middle of the room.

“No!” Ash screamed, leaping behind Bobby’s desk in the study. “I ain’t doin’ it. No way in hell!”

“If I could get Jo to sit through this, you damn well better be sure I can make you do it,” Ellen said sternly.

Jo was slumped over on the couch, touching the ends of her now extremely short hair. Dean was seated on the opposite end. He smiled when he caught her gaze.

“I think it looks cute,” he said with a wink.

“Shut the fuck up,” she grumbled. “I got patrol.” She shot up and marched out the kitchen door.

One of Ellen’s rules was that everyone had to keep their hair short. It was, of course, no problem for Dean, Cas, or Bobby, and Ellen had eagerly cropped her own hair off. Jo had pouted a bit as her straight, golden blonde hair fell to the ground, but nothing compared to the all-out tantrum Ash was throwing.

Ellen had explained that long hair was a point of weakness. If something wanted to grab you, the first thing it would go for would be any loose clothing or something that was easy to get a handle on. That included long hair. Ellen had deemed Ash’s mullet unsafe and therefore it needed to go.

“And I thought I was being a baby about the tattoo,” Dean mumbled under his breath, still in shock that he had let Ash put a needle to his chest in order to draw a douchey tribal tat on it, some five-point star with wavy flames around it. It was supposedly a way of keeping demons from possessing a human. Dean thought it also was a way of keeping the ladies from finding him attractive.

Dean stretched on the couch. While the others were out counting inventory in the garages or patrolling or otherwise being useful, Bobby had instructed Dean to sit inside and read every single one of those damn _Supernatural_ books. He’d said it wasn’t a perfect representation of the whole underground monster world, but it was basically the Cliff Notes. If he wanted a crash course on all things spooky, those books would give it to him.

But god, were they horrible. It was nearly sunset, and it had taken him that long to get up to Book 8. Granted, he skimmed a lot, skipping pages where Slate and Donovan – seriously with those names? – lied about their feelings or had massive crying sessions over their dead dad.

Of course, Dean wasn’t much of a reader anyway. He couldn’t remember the last book he’d actually sat down and read for his own enjoyment. In high school, he’d usually bullshit his way through any book report, scraping by with a C- if he was lucky. Miss McGivney gave him a B on one once, but that was because she thought he was cute. Dean wasn’t about to argue with the grade or her assessment of his looks.

“Dean,” Castiel walked into the room, dodging Ellen’s scissors as she ran by him, chasing Ash.

“Hey, _Kasaliel_ ,” Dean greeted him. “How was patrol?”

“I don’t understand,” Cas said. “My name is Castiel.”

Dean tried to suppress a grin. “You mean you’re not the gal who – and I quote – ‘gripped Donovan tight and raised him from perdition’?”

Cas’s eyes grew wide. “Bobby should not let you read those books.” He snatched the paperback out of Dean’s hands. “They may be words of the prophet, but they are butchered and corrupted by malevolent forces.”

Dean picked up a copy of Book 3 that was lying on the coffee table and glanced at the back cover. “Yeah, Moosebury House Publishing Co. sounds like a front for malevolent forces. Malevolent, possibly Canadian forces.”

“They are,” Cas insisted. “Malevolent, I mean. But we can discuss that later. Bobby sent me to fetch you. He has something to show you.”

Dean followed Cas outside to one of the shacks near the house. Unlike the various garages around them, this one’s windows were boarded up. There were a rusted tin roof and shaky looking walls like the others, but something about it gave Dean the heebie-jeebies.

“Wait, I saw this one before,” Dean said. “Creepy old man lures younger man out to shack to skin him alive. Nope. Don’t think I wanna be a part of this.”

Castiel put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Bobby would never skin you alive. He would make sure you were sufficiently dead before skinning you as to prevent excessive blood splatter.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean murmured. “That’s comforting to know.”

“I’ll accompany you in there,” Cas said. “You may need me, but ideally you won’t.”

“Need you for what?” Dean asked just as Bobby came out the door of the shack.

He looked winded, like he’d just run a mile. Or more accurately for Bobby’s physique, like he just climbed a flight of stairs. Mopping sweat off his brow with a dirty rag, Bobby approached them.

“Now, Dean,” Bobby said. “You been readin’ those books like I asked you?”

“Yup,” Dean answered. “Fine writing. True American classics. Love the metaphor of an evil, mom-killing demon as being evil.”

Bobby frowned. “Didn’t say nothin’ about you havin’ to like ‘em.” He turned to Cas. “You think he can handle this?”

“Dean’s a stubborn, sarcastic, usually lazy man,” Castiel said. “But I believe he is ready and willing.”

“He ain’t gonna botch this on us, is he?” Bobby questioned. “I ain’t in the mood for cleanin’ up any messes.”

“No, I believe in him,” Castiel said with a nod.

“Yeah, that Dean sure is a handsome fellow,” Dean chimed in. “Pretty good poker player too. Heard he has a lovely singing voice.”

Bobby and Cas both looked at Dean like they were surprised he was there.

“Alright then, smartass,” Bobby said. “I got a lil’ welcome to the business present for ya.”

Bobby headed back to the shack. He held the door open and motioned for Cas to go first. Dean followed.

Tiny amounts of sunlight peeked in from between the boarded up windows. It was hard to see clearly, but the light bulb swinging from the center of the ceiling over a chair did allow him to see a bit clearer. In that chair was a man tied up, face bloody and bruised. He whimpered when Dean came in.

“What the fuck is this?” Dean said, backing up toward the door. Castiel blocked the door soon after Bobby entered.

“Please!” the man cried. “I… I have no idea what’s going on. I just want to get back to my son!”

Dean instinctively went toward him, but Bobby and Cas held him back.

“Wouldn’t get too close if I were you,” Bobby said. With his free hand, he pointed down at the ground. Drawn in red paint on the charcoal gray floor was a giant circle with some star and squiggly lines around it. Dean had read about this. He’d seen the symbol on the back cover of one of those books.

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Dean said taking a step back. “This is a… demon trap, right?”

“Devil’s trap,” Bobby corrected. “And you’re right.”

The man groaned. There were tears streaming down his face, merging and swirling with the blood coming from under his nose. A splatter of red hit his denim shirt collar, which already seemed soaking wet. The man looked to be in his late 30s, average size, nothing too remarkable about him. Dean guessed he was some kind of blue collar worker, judging by the wear and tear of his work boots. He was just a normal guy.

“Why you got him in a devil’s trap?” Dean asked suspiciously, eyeing Bobby.

“Why do you think?” Bobby snapped back.

Dean pointed at him. “This guy’s a demon?”

“A demon?” the man cried. “You people are insane! Listen, my name’s Pete Neumann. I’m a construction foreman. My son’s name is Bill. He’s eight. Oh god, I’ll never see my son again.” He continued to sob.

“The fuck is wrong with you people?” Dean asked through clenched teeth. He turned to Cas. “Cas, you can’t be playing along with this. This Bobby character is sick. He’s got a guy tied up in his _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ shack, for god’s sake!”

Dean made a move to go towards the guy again, but Castiel stepped in front of him.

“Told ya he weren’t ready,” Bobby mumbled, folding his arms over his chest. “Take ‘im outta here.”

“No!” Cas said. “He can do this.” He faced Dean. “I may be losing my strength, but I am still physically superior to you. I will not let you get any closer to this demon.”

“The guy’s hurt, man!” Dean insisted, motioning toward Pete whose head was now slumped forward so his chin was touching his chest. “We have to get him to a hospital and get this Bobby and the rest of Heaven’s Gate in police custody or straight to the looney bin or something!”

Bobby snorted a laugh.

“After all you’ve seen,” Castiel said, his eyes burning a hole into Dean head. “You still don’t believe.”

“No, I do believe in you and your magic fairy dust, Tinkerbell,” Dean said. “But you can’t tell me this guy’s a demon. He’s so… normal!”

“Listen to him!” Pete whimpered, looking up. “I’m just a normal guy! It’s my kid’s first Little League game tomorrow. He plays second base. I have to see him. Please let me go. Dean, I can trust you, right? You’re a good man, Dean. Help me!”

Dean started to make a move to push Castiel out of the way. The angel visibly tensed. But Dean never made contact. He stopped himself.

“How do you know my name?” Dean asked.

Pete blinked. “One of them must’ve said it.”

“No,” Dean said. “Pretty sure they didn’t.” Dean leaned back where he stood. “Wait, I know this. Those demons in the book always did this. What was it those Windcasters always said? Oh yeah. Demons lie.”

Pete stared at him for a moment, his face still looking as sad and pathetic as ever.

“Damn,” Pete said finally. “Almost had you convinced there, didn’t I?”

Dean smirked. “Well, you kinda did the oldest slip up in the book. Saying someone’s name when no one mentioned it before? That’s weak, man.”

Pete shrugged in his restraints. “Can’t win ‘em all, I guess.”

Dean shot a look at Cas, who nodded and then stepped out of the way. Bobby came up next to Dean and handed him a book open to a page with what looked like a poem on it. Dean glanced at the book and saw that it was Latin. He recognized it from the cheesy teen lit he’d been reading all day.

“An exorcism?” Dean asked, looking at Bobby.

Pete let out a hearty laugh. “Oh please! Bobby Singer, I know you’re getting a bit long in the tooth, but you really need this baby hunter to do your dirty work for you?”

Bobby ignored him. “Whatever he says to you, you don’t stop. Read every single word exactly as it’s written.”

Dean looked down at the page. “How do I pronounce all this? I wasn’t exactly on the path to seminary school.”

“Say it backwards!” Pete suggested. “It’s kind of like KISS lyrics. It becomes an incantation for the devil.” He laughed again.

Rolling his eyes, Bobby answered, “All long vowels. Like Spanish. Doesn’t have to be pretty, boy. Just do it.”

“Like Spanish, eh?” Pete said. “Bobby, you say that like Dean even made it through high school Spanish. He was asleep half the time. The other half of the time he was glaring at that kid in the front row. What was _his_ name? Isaac? Yeah, Isaac.”

Dean tensed. He looked down at the page in front of him.

Pete whistled. “That Isaac sure was a pretty boy, wasn’t he? Dark brown hair, big blue eyes. Big mouth. Dean, you had some kinky fantasies involving that mouth.”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbled.

Bobby tossed something from a flask at Pete. It seared his skin like acid, causing a chemical-like smoke to rise from his body. Pete screamed.

Dean took that as his cue. “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_ ,” Dean began to read hesitantly.

Pete’s screaming eventually formed into words. “Yeah, high school quarterback Dean Winchester. Homecoming king. Now the town drunk. Talk about the guy who peaked in high school. But I guess you really didn’t even peak there, seeing as you didn’t get a chance to do what you _really_ wanted to do.”

“ _Omnis satanica potestas_ ,” Dean went on, his voice getting shaky.

In front of him Pete shuddered and convulsed, his muscles seeming to tighten and bend in unnatural ways. His eyes were bulging, unblinking as they stared at Dean.

“I can see why you hang out with angel boy over there,” Pete said. “I mean, he’s practically lil’ Isaac all growed up. Bet you wanna fuck him in the mouth.”

“You mother fucker,” Dean spat and started to lunge toward him. Bobby and Castiel held him back.

“I said don’t listen to a word he says!” Bobby ordered. “Finish the exorcism!”

Dean and Pete’s eyes met. Dean’s eyes were all fury, but Pete’s were dead. He had human eyes, brown with heavy lids and wrinkles around them. He looked tired, but probably worked decent hours and had enough time off to hang out with his son. But no. This wasn’t Pete. The eyes he was looking into were dead.

“ _Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica_ ,”Dean chanted quickly.

Pete writhed, his screams growing louder and less human.

“Fuck you!” he hissed. “John was right. You are a fucking failure! He’s glad he’s dead. He’s glad he didn’t have to see his fucking faggot son turn into an alcoholic bitch!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Castiel staring at him with those sad eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to look directly at him. Not even for a second.

“ _Ergo draco maledicte et sectio_!” Dean chanted, angrier than he’d ever been.

Pete laughed. “Oh, John Winchester. What a cunt! But you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“ _Ergo draco maledicte et legio secta diabolica_!” Dean attempted to drown out whatever the demon was saying.

“Wouldn’t fuck your mother after lil’ Sammy was born,” Pete went on. “Guess he couldn’t get it up. Had his eyes on someone else.”

“ _Ut Ecclésiam tuam secúra tibi fácias servire libertáte_!” Dean was practically screaming at this point.

“Like father like son,” Pete murmured. He seemed weak, yet that grin never left his face. “Sure did fuck up poor little Sammy. Oh, we got big things in store for little Sammy. He’s so fucked up, he probably wants it. I bet he’ll be on his knees begging for the fu-”

“ _Te rogámus, audi nos_!” Dean shouted at the top of his lungs. The moment the last word left his lips, Pete threw his head back, mouth gaping open. He screamed, but instead of air coming out, an enormous cloud of black smoke flew up toward the ceiling. It circled around once then plunged into the floor. It was gone. Pete hunched over in his seat, silent.

“Get him out of here,” Bobby ordered Castiel, pointing at Dean.

Bobby was right to want to get Dean out of there. The moment Pete was silent, Dean started to leap toward him, fists ready. Castiel grabbed him around the shoulders from behind. The angel was indeed much stronger than Dean as he was able to hoist him out the door with very little effort. The door closed behind them and Dean shook Cas off. He stormed off back toward the house.

“Dean!” Castiel called after him, catching up.

“No!” Dean said, throwing an arm up to signal to Cas to back off. “Don’t you come near me!”

“I’m sorry, it was my fault,” Cas said, ignoring Dean’s instructions. “Bobby said you weren’t ready, but I insisted. You have to understand that the only way you can learn about supernatural beings is to experience them first hand.”

Dean whipped around to face Cas. He searched his eyes for something. The old Cas. The confused Cas. The Cas who looked at a bicycle and couldn’t figure out why anyone would use such a ridiculous contraption. What Dean saw before him was an angel. He wasn’t human. The thing in the shack wasn’t human either. At that very moment, Cas and Pete might as well have been the same thing.

Dean glanced at the house a few yards ahead.

“Those things the demon said in there,” Cas said solemnly. “You have to realize demons lie. They will say anything to distract and manipulate you.” He took a step closer to Dean.

Involuntarily, Dean’s eyes went to Cas’s. He caught himself and immediately turned his head away.

“You stay the hell away from me,” Dean murmured.

Castiel was silent behind him.

“I’m out of here. I’m taking one of these cars – stealing one of these cars. It’s the end of the fucking world and I’m driving the fuck back to Lawrence,” Dean said. “I don’t wanna have anything to do with _this_. I don’t wanna have anything to do with you people.”

“Dean, no,” Cas said. His hand found its way to Dean’s shoulder.

Dean whirled around and shoved him in the chest. Cas didn’t budge, but it made Dean fall back a bit.

“I said stay the fuck away from me!” Dean yelled. “Don’t touch me. Don’t even look at me. You people are sick, you know that? You’re following the word of a fucking tween novel! That Donovan Windcaster in those stupid fucking books? He ain’t me. That guy, he’s some sort of super hero. He can kill monsters like he’s checking out groceries at the supermarket. I can’t do that. I ain’t nobody’s hero.”

He sighed. “I just don’t give a fuck, Cas.”

Dean couldn’t make eye contact, but he could feel Castiel’s gaze on his face. There was silence between them. The wind made the pine trees around them shudder.

“I give a fuck,” Cas said.

Dean looked up briefly before turning and storming back to the house.

“INCOMING!”

Dean and Castiel both whipped around to see Jo running toward them.


	25. Chapter 25

November 27, 2009 – Lawrence, KS

Dean found his way to the hallway outside his bedroom and headed to the bathroom, half blind. He squinted at the bright daylight pouring in through the window at the end of the hall. He had no idea what time it was, but he was still in the ratty Packers shirt and plaid fleece pajama pants. After taking a leak, he headed downstairs on stiff legs. His ankles cracked with each step under his own weight.

He was never a morning person, or a get-up-on-your-feet person for that matter, but the older he got, the more difficult it was to force himself out of bed. It wasn’t like when he was a teenager when he’d sleep like a rock until noon on the weekends and during winter or summer break. Nowadays it was just a matter of how to get his ass off the mattress. He’d be awake for hours, but the bed was just too damn comfy. Usually the only thing that motivated him out of it was the need to drain the snake. Alcohol helped with that. If he didn’t have his daily nightcap, he would probably never even need to get out of bed.

Nights of binging were a different story, of course. Wild horses couldn’t drag Dean out of bed the morning after.

There was a tall figure standing in the kitchen, his back to Dean. He was in a red T-shirt with a pine tree or something on the back.

“Hey,” Dean mumbled, heading for the Mr. Coffee on the counter.

The figure turned around. He’d been cutting up the leftover turkey from last night and putting it on a sandwich. A bowl with deep red goo sat next to his plate.

“Hey,” Sam replied before turning his attention back to the sandwich.

“Don’t eat all the cranberry sauce,” Dean said sternly.

Mom’s forte was certainly apple pie, but her homemade cranberry sauce was the perfect balance of sweet and tart. Dean usually sat in front of the TV the day after Thanksgiving and just spooned it into his mouth.

“Wasn’t planning to,” Sam said, a hint of frustration in his voice.

Dean put a filter in the coffee machine then brought the pot to the sink. He brushed passed Sam, grumbled a quick, “Sorry,” then filled up the pot with enough water to make three cups. It was one of those mornings.

“Mom home?” Dean asked.

Sam brought his completed sandwich to the kitchen table. “Out shopping with Jess.”

“Early start?” Dean leaned against the counter.

“Left at about 10,” Sam replied before taking a bite.

Dean grunted in reply then glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was 12:15. Pretty early for him on his day off, but he figured all the ruckus Sam was making in the kitchen probably disturbed his peaceful slumber. Or rather, his peaceful staring at the ceiling.

The coffee seemed to take forever. Sam munched on the sandwich quietly and quickly.

“Heading out today?” Dean tried.

“Might meet Jess and Mom up later,” his brother said to his sandwich.

“Buying me something nice for Christmas?” Dean joked.

Sam shot a glance up at Dean. “What do you want?” he asked dryly.

“I dunno,” Dean said, “stripper gram? Chick dressed up like a sexy Mrs. Claus singing ‘Santa Baby’. Oh yeah, that would be the best Christmas present ever.”

Sam glared at him and swallowed a bite of his sandwich. “You’re so sexist.”

“What?” Dean said with a blink.

“You’re sexist,” Sam said.

Dean stared at him for a few moments, literally biting his tongue.

“I don’t need to listen to this,” Dean said and stormed toward the stairs. “Have a fucking great day, Sam.”

When he turned the corner to get to the foyer, he could hear a chair slide across the floor behind him. Sam must have stood up, probably tossing his sandwich in to the garbage out of frustration.

Ever since Sam was a kid, he went through periods where he’d eat two bites of his meal then refuse to eat the rest. When he was little, he said he had a tummy ache. As he got older, he began to tell Mom and Dad that he was too excited about a test or something coming up at school. Dad would tell him sternly that he spent his hard-earned money on that food and the boys better eat it or he’d mail it to starving children in Africa. Mom would look concerned, then gently tell Sam that she’d keep his unfinished plate in the fridge for when he wanted to eat it. Dean would always find the plate the next day, not a single bite missing from the night before. That was basically an invitation for Dean to finish it himself.

Sure enough, Dean heard the lid of the garbage can slam shut.

Fuck that little prick.

Fuck Sam for wasting a perfectly good sandwich.

******

April 24, 2010 – San Francisco, CA

“Dean?” Sam said, his voice shaky as he held the radio receiver close to his mouth. “I can’t believe it! How did you, I mean, why are you…?”

Dean laughed on the other end. “I dunno, Sam, I just… When it all went down, I figured I had to find you. And when I called you last night and heard your voice, it was like, man, I gotta get to San Francisco.”

“But what about Mom? Is she there with you?” Sam asked. Dean had said he came with a friend, but he didn’t mention anyone else.

“Jesus, Sam,” Dean said. He was silent for a few seconds before he spoke again. “You didn’t hear me last night?”

Sam tried to remember. It felt like so long ago, but he did hear him say something about Mom on their brief, staticky phone call.

“What happened to Mom?” Sam asked hurriedly.

Mom was tough. Sam had seen Mom whack a burglar on the head when he tried to get in through their living room window. It was when Sam was about fourteen. Dad had been on one of his overnight trips, and Dean was fast asleep upstairs. A nuclear bomb going off right outside his door couldn’t wake Dean up. But Sam and Mom had heard something rattling downstairs. Mom had ordered Sam to stay upstairs and call 911 when she saw him creeping down, but he refused to leave her alone. She grabbed Dean’s Louisville Slugger from the linen closet and went downstairs. The burglar was about half way through the window when Mom raised the bat over her head and slammed down hard. The guy was out like a light.

Mom was tough. Nothing could touch her. Nothing.

“Sam,” Dean sounded distressed. “It all started yesterday morning. I couldn’t stop them. There were about ten of them. They came into the house.”

“No,” Sam said calmly. Mom was tough. “She wouldn’t let them in the house. They wouldn’t have gotten past the front door.”

“Fuck,” Dean said exasperatedly. “Mom fought like a tiger, Sam. She did. Me and her, we killed three of them, but… but they were too strong. Oh Jesus fuck.”

Sam couldn’t say anything. First Jessica. Now Mom.

“Sam?” Dean said. He sounded distant.

“I’m here,” Sam managed. His throat was dry. Painfully dry.

“I got out,” Dean said. “I don’t know how, but I got out. Ran into Cas. You remember my buddy, Cas, right? We jumped into my pickup and just drove. I had about half a tank of gas and drove as far as it would take us. We found some gas stations along the way, but had to siphon gas from abandoned cars mostly. Sam, nobody’s out here. All the way from Lawrence to wherever the fuck I am. It’s just… them.”

“No, Dean,” Sam said. “There are people out there. There have to be. We haven’t seen anyone else, but we can’t be the only ones left.”

Sam could hear Dean sigh. “I’m just glad to hear you’re safe. You said you’re there with someone else, right? Jessica?”

Sam was silent for a few moments. “She didn’t make it.”

“Fuck,” Dean replied. “I’m…I’m real sorry, man. Listen, I’m gonna get to you as soon as I can. There’re keys in this semi. Never driven one in my life, but hey, now’s as good a time as any to learn how.”

Sam couldn’t help but smile.

“I’m sure I can find a map of California in this police station somewhere,” Sam said. “I’ll give you exact directions as you drive.  OK?”

“Sounds good to me, but I’m in Nevada somewhere,” Dean said. “I’m gonna go out and see if I can find some kind of mile marker or interstate sign or something. You still have that cheap knockoff watch on you?”

Sam glanced down at his wrist. “Yeah.”

“Alright,” Dean replied. “No use wasting any more gas driving around in circles. I’m gonna stretch my legs a bit and see if I can find anything, but I’ll radio you back at three on the dot. Got it?”

“Got it,” Sam said, “but you’re going to go out there alone? Is it safe?”

Dean laughed again. “The whole damn world ain’t safe. Didn’t you hear? It’s the zombie apocalypse! I’ll be fine. I found an axe. Axes always seem to work pretty well in those zombie movies.”

“Fine,” Sam agreed. “But you radio at three on the dot.”

“Gotcha,” Dean said.

“And Dean?” Sam was hesitant. He didn’t want to break contact with the only link to his previous, mundane life. Even if he and Dean had had their differences in the past – and boy, were those some differences – he was still family. And as of yesterday, he was the only family left alive.

“Dean.” The back of his throat was shaky. “Be careful.”

“I always am,” Dean said with a bit of arrogance in his voice. “Over and out, Sammy.”

Sam swallowed. No one had called him Sammy in years. The only person who called him Sammy since Dad died was Jessica. Hell, he could hardly remember if Dean ever called him Sammy once without making fun of him. Dean must’ve been trying to keep him calm, remind him of Dad. Dean was probably trying to be the protective older brother he almost never was.

Just as the radio settled on static, the lights overhead flickered on. Within seconds, the room was illuminated. Sam heard a door open and he could see Ruby on the other side of the Plexiglas, a triumphant expression on her face.

“You did it!” Sam cried.

Ruby came rushing in and leaped into his arms for a hug. Sam hugged back awkwardly before Ruby let go and backed away.

“Sorry,” she said, suddenly shy. “I just got really excited.”

Sam shrugged then glanced at the radio. “I made contact with someone! My own brother of all people!”

Ruby’s smile grew wider. “That’s great, Sam! But how? I mean, you said he was in Kansas.”

Sam recounted the conversation he’d just had, only leaving out the detail of Mom not making it. Ruby seemed overjoyed at the news that they weren’t alone.

“I didn’t realize CB radios could reach out that far,” she noted quietly. “So what time is it now?”

Sam checked his watch. “About ten. Dean’ll call…uh radio back in five hours. In the meantime, we gotta patch up that door before anything tries to get in. I’ll venture out and look for some plywood or something. Maybe some food and stuff. You stay by the radio for now in case anyone else tries to reach us. Now that we have power, we don’t have to worry about the battery.”

“The power seems to be running on diesel. I saw the tanks in the basement,” Ruby said. “We don’t have infinite fuel, but we should be good for a couple weeks.”

“Good,” Sam said with a nod.

Sam and Ruby went around the police department turning off as many lights as they felt comfortable with. They found a door with a sign that read “Holding” on it, but didn’t dare to venture in there yet. They found the armory, but none of the keys on the reception desk’s key ring seemed to work on it. It was probably for the best anyway. Sam was the only one with any gun experience and that merely included shooting a couple of cans or going to the gun range for Dean’s birthday a few years in a row. He never successfully killed a living thing before. Well, with a gun, anyway.

With most of the lights out, save for a few overhead by the reception desk, the place looked eerie again. Ruby sat with her legs curled up on the rolling chair at the desk, her face buried in her knees as Sam packed a stray nightstick in his backpack.

“You’ll come back, right?” Ruby said quietly as she gazed up at him. She had deep, dark brown eyes that were hard to read in the little light they had.

“Of course,” Sam reassured her. He had the urge to reach out to her. To put his hands on her shoulders, look her straight in the eye and tell her everything was going to be alright. He would have done that with Jess.

But instead, all he could offer was a pathetic smile. Ruby nodded and Sam headed for the door.

He looked out the door and squinted at the sudden, intense sunlight. The police station was up a slight hill, so he had a bit of a height advantage looking down the street. There wasn’t a soul. A stray plastic Walmart bag blew across the street and hit a tree.

Stepping out, Sam headed back toward the house. He vaguely remembered running past a Home Depot last night. The big orange storefront was kind of hard to miss. He’d have to trek back the way they came when they were running from his apartment, which he knew would be hard to do considering he was in a state of complete panic the whole time. He wasn’t even sure exactly how long they’d been running, but he was sure the Home Depot couldn’t have been more than a mile from the house.

Just as they’d walked to the police station, Sam carefully navigated his way back to the house. He knew he wasn’t the best with maps. He never quite earned that badge in Boy Scouts. But then again, the only badge he actually earned was the one for reading the whole manual. Dean had been the one who got the fire building, knot tying, whittling or whatever badge as a kid. That was, of course, until Dean discovered girls didn’t find the pressed khaki shorts and ascot all that attractive.

Dean. Sam couldn’t believe Dean had driven all the way west just to find him. Dean, who’d stolen his lunch every day for about a month on the bus to elementary school because he said Mom wanted to make sure he didn’t get fat. Dean, who’d nearly broken his nose for changing the channel from the Packers game to a PBS documentary on dogs because the Packers were his life, or so he said. Dean, who got stupid drunk at Sam and Jessica’s wedding, couldn’t even stand to give a toast, and ruined a flowerbed at the country club because he slept in it for about thirty minutes before Sam and Raj dragged him to a taxi and sent him home.  

But times of crisis showed what a man was deep inside, Dad always said. Dad was in Nam. He would have known.

All dead.

It was just Dean and Sam.

Sam spotted a massive parking lot in front of a building with a huge, orange front. He sighed with relief. He had been right, and actually, the place was much closer to the house than he’d thought. He clutched the straps on his backpack and approached the store. The parking lot had a few cars in it parked close to the back. Sam had worked at the grocery store the year before he went to college, bagging groceries. The manager had told all the employees to park at the back of the lot. The cars he saw now were probably the employees. He hoped they were still there. He hoped they were still human.

The closer he got to the store, the easier it was to see that the glass on the automatic sliding doors were smashed. Looters, probably. He hoped. It had to be. He couldn’t be the only one thinking going down to the Home Depot to get supplies was a good idea.

But it could have been those things. One of them had broken the rear window of his car. They were insane. They could’ve just gone in there and started smashing everything.

Sam stopped in the middle of the parking lot and grabbed the metal of a cart corral. There was a tall pole next to it. Sam looked up. Lot B8. He could imagine it getting tough to find your car in a parking lot this big.

B8. He was stuck in B8.

He crouched to the ground and hung on the metal. It felt hot in his hands. The shopping carts in front of him were in some sort of order toward the back of the corral, but not in the front. It took just one person to not give a shit about the order of things to fuck up the whole thing.

There was a cigarette butt on the ground. There were very few smokers in San Francisco. Was probably some carpenter or electrician or landscaper or painter having a smoke before picking up supplies at Home Depot yesterday or the day before.

A receipt for two light bulbs. $1.89 plus tax. Two light bulbs. Someone went to Home Depot just for light bulbs. Why? Why? The grocery store had light bulbs. Get light bulbs when you pick up a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread. That whole building didn’t lend itself for a quick pick up. It was such an expansive, agoraphobia-inducing warehouse.

Sam shouldn’t go in there. They had two-by-fours and toilets and those plastic tool sheds on high shelves or hanging twenty feet in the air. They’ll fall on him. He’d die.

Sam would die.

They’d fall on him and he’d die.

Don’t go in there, Sam.

Sam found himself with one arm hanging on the metal of the cart corral, his chest tight. Tears and snot oozed from his face as he sobbed. He put his free hand over his face. It was dirty with sand and pebbles. He wasn’t quite sure from what. Probably the ground. But he wiped his nose with the back of it anyway. He coughed and gagged on his own phlegm until he let go of the metal and brought both hands to either side of his head.

Something made a sound in the distance. It sounded like metal on metal.

He peered through the shopping carts in front of him, trying to get a good look at the source of the sound. It seemed to be coming from the building.

Sam wanted to say, “Fuck,” but the word was stuck in his mouth.

Standing in front of the broken doors were two people. No, not people. Those things. They swayed a bit where they stood, their clothes dirty. Sam couldn’t make out their faces clearly, but they were watching him.

Sam slowly, quietly brought his backpack to his front. He reached into the side pocket and pulled out the knife Ruby had given him and the nightstick. Knife in his right hand, nightstick in his left, Sam carefully stood up. They had to see him now. There was no way they’d miss the six-foot-four sobbing mess.

The two zombies faced each other for a second then sprinted toward him. Sam blinked away the tears that lingered in his eyes and screamed.

“Come on!”

They slowed a bit. Maybe they had some sort of fear instinct.

Too bad, they’d already seen Sam. If he turned and ran back to the police station, he’d be leading them straight to Ruby and their hideout. He had to take them down now.

Sam rushed forward, screaming and howling like a mad man. The zombies turned and sprinted back toward the building. As Sam descended on them, he realized they were women. Or had been. Either way, their legs were much shorter than his and couldn’t outrun him for long. One of the zombies veered left and headed toward a side street. Sam continued to pursue the one running straight. He’d deal with the other one later.

He caught up and raised his knife. He slashed down, but missed by an inch. That movement slowed him down a bit, but the zombie in front of him seemed to be tiring. It was panting hard before Sam slashed its back. It made an unhuman screech then collapsed to the ground, face down. Sam raised his knife again and slammed it deep into the zombie’s back. Blood spurted out as the thing continued to scream. The knife went up again. Then down. Then up. Then down.

The zombie stopped making sounds. It stopped moving.

Sam stood. He was covered in blood again. He didn’t have the energy to run after the other one. Besides, it was out of sight. He couldn’t track it even if he wanted.

Using his flashlight, he found the plywood near the entrance of the Home Depot. It was fairly easy to spot in the lumber section.

Sam headed back. He’d need to stop by the house to get a change of clothes again.


	26. Chapter 26

April 13, 2010 – Lawrence, KS

Dean stirred in his sleep, kicking the blue knit blanket off of himself. He was lying on his stomach, snoring quietly for a while before he’d turned his head into his pillow and choked for a brief second. He rolled over and curled up on his side. He was having a dream about a football game in which all the players had alligator heads and they played with a ball made out of sandstone. Dean was afraid to catch the ball, so he kept fumbling. The coach, who had a flamingo head, squawked at him from the sidelines.

If Dean had woken up at that moment, he would have seen Castiel standing two feet from the foot of his bed. Castiel watched the blanket slip from the bed to the ground, then returned his gaze to Dean. In the past, he would go invisible and watch Dean that way, but his strength was waning. Even sending himself into Dean’s room was stretching the limits of his remaining power.

But he had to see Dean. Dean, who hadn’t slept a restful night in nearly three and a half years, lay before him exposed. The apocalypse was supposed to be in ten days. Castiel sighed. The world would descend into chaos and Castiel’s innocent friend would have to become the man he should have been. Or perhaps the man he never should have been. Castiel still wasn’t sure. The prophecy was completely off track. Heaven was probably in a state of panic. Not that Castiel knew anything about that. The only angelic voices he heard were on angel radio. No one from Heaven had spoken directly to him since he fell.

“You thought we forgot about you, huh?” a voice on angel radio whispered.

Someone was answering a prayer.

“No, Castiel,” the voice corrected. “We didn’t forget about you.”

Castiel tensed and searched the room. Right next to the head of the bed stood a bald man in a suit. He grinned.

“Zachariah!” Castiel gasped.

“Shhhh!” Zachariah hissed, putting his finger to his mouth. “You’ll wake up Sleeping Beauty here.”

Zachariah had made himself invisible and mute to humans, but any angel could see him clear as day. Shooting a glance down at Dean, Castiel took a deep breath and made himself invisible as well. He then asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t waste your energy going invisible, Castiel,” Zachariah instructed. “Besides, I’ll do all the talking here.” He snapped his fingers and Castiel was once again visible to humans. He was high ranking and powerful. If he wanted to stir up trouble, Castiel was in no state to fight him.

“Put me back in, coach,” Dean murmured in his sleep. “Give you some salmon.”

Zachariah snickered. “Wow, humans. I don’t even know what to say. How did you manage to stay down here so long without going completely insane from their stupidity?”

Castiel opened his mouth to speak, but then immediately shut it.

“Rhetorical question,” Zachariah said with a sneer. “Anyway, I don’t want to waste any of your precious creepy stalker time here, so I’ll be brief. We’re keeping this on the DL, so you won’t hear it on angel radio until the day actually comes, but as you’re well aware, we’re coming down to the wire with the whole end of days thing, and I’m sure you’ve been wondering if your royal fuck up has thrown anything off course.”

Castiel’s royal fuck up. That was one way of putting it.

“Bottom line,” Zachariah continued, “we’re all good to go with Armageddon. Yup, no need to worry.”

Castiel gazed down at the carpeted floor. He had known there was a strong chance that, despite his best efforts, the apocalypse was inevitable. After all, it was ordained by God. Castiel was merely one minor angel in the grand scheme of things, and he had no right trying to change destiny.

Intellectually, anyway, he knew that. But Castiel as of late was having a hard time thinking intellectually. He’d thought he had a chance to set things on a path that would make Dean happy. No, not just Dean. Humanity. The world didn’t have to end. There were loopholes, anyone could see that. Castiel was of the firm belief that God had put those loopholes in there for a reason. There had to be an out. God had blessed humanity with free will. Taking that away to end it all made no sense.

God’s word, for the first time, made no sense to Castiel.

When that thought first crossed his mind, it frightened him. He shoved it down in a deep, dark place. But the more he aided in putting the plan in motion, the more the apocalypse simply felt wrong. He didn’t dare voice his opinion. No one knew what he felt. It was the first secret he’d ever kept from Heaven in his entire existence.

So when Castiel disobeyed Heaven on December 14, 2006, and saved Dean Winchester, Castiel expected retaliation. He expected to be called before the highest order of angels to be reprimanded. He expected they would order him to explain himself, and he wouldn’t be able to. He expected punishment. He expected death.

But there was none of that.

He tried to return to Heaven. He couldn’t. The gates were locked to him.

He reached out to Uriel. Silence. The rest of the garrison. He even tried Balthazar. Nothing.

He heard their voices in a constant stream in his head. There was no mention of the angel who rebelled to save a man, a man who had no worth, served no purpose. No one whispered the name Castiel. He wasn’t an angel. He didn’t exist. He had never existed.

“But the vessel,” Castiel whispered. Dean stirred slightly at the sound of Castiel’s voice.

“You think you’re the only one strong enough to take a trip down south?” Zachariah said with amusement in his voice. “We handled it. Well, more specifically, I handled it. But you know what, to be honest, you did us a solid by causing the delay. Pulling him out of hell right away could have resulted in the same problem we were originally supposed to have, according to prophecy. We would have had a whiney little mud monkey being all free will this, free will that, wishy-washy crap about saying yes.”

He glanced down at Dean. “You have no idea how eternally grateful I am that it turned out this one was just a dud. I mean, according to prophecy, calling him a pain in the ass would be an understatement.”

He took a few steps closer to the bed. Castiel pursed his lips and straightened his shoulders. He was ready to lunge.

“Whoa there, cowboy!” Zachariah said with a chuckle, putting his hands up in defeat. “No need to get all possessive boyfriend on Winchester Jr. here. We have no use for him alive, but that doesn’t mean we want him dead. You can continue getting your jollies watching him sleep all day in this disgusting hovel he calls home.” Zachariah picked up an empty Doritos bag on the bedside table, made a face, then immediately put it back down.

“Then what do you want?” Castiel whispered.

“I’m here out of mercy,” Zachariah said, walking toward the foot of the bed and closer to Castiel. “By all accounts, you should be crawling on your hands and knees begging for forgiveness from Heaven, but if we are not merciful, how are we any different from the damned that rot in hell?”

Castiel held his tongue.

“We’re presenting you with two options,” Zachariah said. “You’re not too good with the whole choosing the most rational course of action, but I was given orders to bring these to the table, and unlike some angels, I follow my orders. Option A is we get all your angel powers back to a hundred percent, lickity split. Your post will be reinstated. No hard feelings. All you have to do is come back to us. Fight this final battle.”

“Never,” Castiel said, perhaps too loud as Dean grumbled and frowned nearby.

“Are you even willing to listen to Option B here?” Zachariah sounded annoyed. “Option B, as I was saying, is this: become one of them.”

“One of them?” Castiel whispered almost inaudibly.

“A human,” Zachariah stated plainly. “You think your angel powers are just going to stop diminishing at 40% or something? No, Castiel, once the final battle starts, your tank will very quickly be running on empty and that’s it. Not being able to pop off to Cancun in a split second may seem like the worst part now, but that’s not even scratching the surface of what it means to be mortal. You see how pathetic and helpless your little human is here.” He pointed down at Dean. “Dehydration, starvation, disease, injury,” he paused and was suddenly directly in front of Castiel. “Aging. Death. And then Heaven, perhaps. Or Hell.”

Castiel stared down. He couldn’t meet the other angel’s eyes.

“Welcome to the mortal coil, Castiel,” Zachariah said sternly. “Your human here has had a lifetime of experiences with paper cuts and stubbed toes. How do you think your first bout of influenza will go over? What do you think a broken arm will be like? How about cancer?”

Castiel swallowed. His eyes moved from the floor to Dean’s sleeping form. Dean rolled over and was now on his back. His eyes were never completely shut during this stage of sleep. They were open ever so slightly, just tiny slits of white between light brown eyelashes.

Sleep. Muscles relaxed, the brain running wild in dreams, closed off to the outside world. Every human being, every single one of them, slept. It was a shared experience. Dean slept. Restlessly, but he slept.

“I will not fight the battles of Heaven,” Castiel said confidently. “I will become human. I do not fear mortality.”

Zachariah sighed. “I told them not to give you a choice. Oh well. Good-bye, Castiel.”

The angel was gone.

******

April 24, 2010 – Sioux Falls, SD

“What is it?” Castiel shouted as Jo sprinted toward them.

“Six demons breached the perimeter!” Jo shouted, out of breath. “Hole in the fence. Must’ve been an infected human who cut it because Mom made put wards up so demons sure as hell couldn’t. The demons’ve got guns. Shot my walkie. With the hole in the fence now-“

“I’m on it,” Cas interrupted as he looked past the lot and through the trees. He started walking forward.

Dean desperately tried to see what the angel had spotted, but he couldn’t. The gate to Bobby’s lot was blocking whatever Castiel had apparently seen. The angel quickly headed for the gate. He snapped his right arm down and a metallic object popped out of his sleeve. The setting sun made it seem like it was glowing. Dean realized it was some sort of blade.

“Where the hell was he keeping that thing?” he asked no one in particular.

“Come on,” Jo said, grabbing Dean’s arm. “You need to get inside. Lock the door and stay away from the windows.”

“Whoa!” Dean pulled his arm away. “Demons breached the parameter? I just exorcised one. I can help.”

Jo scrunched up her face and glared at Dean. “I have zero patience for this. I gotta back up Castiel. Go get my mom and Bobby. Now!”

She slung her gun to her front and sprinted after the angel. Dean watched her. What was the word Ellen called him? A liability? Fuck that. If the one demon had been a huge prick, he imagined six were even worse. The thing in the shed was tied up and in a devil’s trap, making it unable to retaliate physically. But from what Dean had read in the _Supernatural_ books, he knew demons weren’t all talk.

One of the books – he couldn’t remember which one, probably _Highway to Hell_ – had a few chapters in which Slate was possessed by some demon-bitch that tried to kill Donovan in creative and slightly sexual ways. Dean shuddered at the thought. He wasn’t about to let any of those things get the upper hand on him. He had to fight back. Dean headed for the back door of the house. He’d seen Bobby cleaning some guns and blades of various, frightening sizes. If Dean could sneak in without Ellen or Ash noticing, he could grab some weapons and fight. He knew regular bullets didn’t kill them, but rock salt could slow them down. He also imagined decapitation would also do the trick.

Ellen came out of the front of the house and slammed the door behind her.

“Was that Jo?” she called after Dean.

Fuck. So much for sneaking.

“Demons!” Dean yelled, going back toward the front.

“Son of a bitch,” Ellen cursed. “Follow me!” She headed back for the door.

“I ain’t hiding,” Dean said defiantly. “Give me a weapon. I’m gonna help.”

Ellen shot him a stern glance. “Get your butt inside, boy, before I whoop you.”

Dean obeyed.

They rushed inside and Ellen picked up her walkie talkie that was resting on the kitchen table.

“This is Big Mama. Do you copy, Bear? Over,” she said into the receiver as she gathered up a gun and a box of ammo that were also sitting on the table.

“Bear here, over,” Bobby’s voice came from the speaker.

“We got Black Eyes, over,” she responded, then turned to Dean. “Where are they?”

“Dunno,” Dean said, eying another gun on the table. It was a much older model shot gun than the one Ellen was holding. The end of the barrel was sawed off. It was probably full of rock salt, iron, and silver. Something like that would irritate the fuck out of demon.

“Then where did Jo run off to? And Cas?” Ellen demanded.

“Toward the gate,” Dean said hastily. “Jo said they cut a hole in the fence or something. Six of them got in. Ellen, give me that gun. I’ll help.”

Ellen ignored him and said into the walkie, “Location unknown. Perimeter breached. Goldie and Columbo at the Pearly, over.”

“Copy that,” Bobby’s voice said. “F-17. Backup required? Over.”

“Negative,” Ellen responded. “I got this one. Over and out.” She shoved the walkie into a strap on her belt then headed for the living room. Dean watched as she grabbed a white megaphone, slinging the strap over her shoulder.

“What’s F-17?” Dean asked as she headed for the door.

“Dean,” Ellen said through gritted teeth. “You wanna help? Fine. Grab that gun on the table. I think you know not to point it at anything you don’t intend to shoot. But I don’t want you firing it unless you’re the last man standing, hear me?”

Dean nodded before snatching the gun and followed her out the door.

They ran to the gate. Bobby was already there. The gate was just a regular, junkyard chain-link fence with barbed wire on the top. On the surface, it looked like any juvenile delinquent could break through. But Dean saw on the other side that the trees were covered in red spray paint, demon-warding symbols everywhere. On the ground, there was a long trail PVC piping running parallel to the fence on the outside. A ring of salt, Dean figured. They’d partially buried it in the ground and covered it so it wouldn’t dissolve in the rain.

“Where the hell is Jo?” Ellen mumbled, taking out her walkie.

“She said her walkie was shot,” Dean informed her.

“And she ran back out there?” Ellen asked. She was the sternest woman Dean had ever met, but for a brief moment, her eyes flashed a hint of worry. She looked away.

Ellen had her gun out and was peering through the fence. Dean followed her gaze. Just outside the line of trees with Ellen’s wonderful graffiti stood a figure. Squinting, Dean could see it was a man.

“Come!” Ellen ordered, grabbing Dean. They ducked behind a lone car hood that had obviously been set up as cover.

“I need you to call Cas,” Ellen whispered.

Dean reached into his back pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

Ellen shook her head. “No, not like that. Pray for him.”

“Pray for him?” Dean repeated in disbelief. “Dear Lord, please bless Mommy, and Daddy, and Cassy…”

“No,” Ellen said with a scowl. “Didn’t you learn anything from those books? Pray for him to come here.”

Of course. Whenever the Windcasters were in a pickle, they prayed for their local, friendly Deus Ex Machina Kasaliel. Donovan would clasp his hands together, reluctantly grumble some frou-frou, Old English or something, and the Manic Pixie Dream Angel would appear out of thin air. One time she appeared just as Donovan was getting out of the shower, unaware that that was generally a big social taboo.

“Um,” Dean started, “Cas? Ellen wants to know…uh… where are you?”

Just as he uttered the words, Dean saw another figure run up to the man in the distance. In an instant, the figure swung up his arm and hit the other smack dab in the face. Light seemed to spark out of the man and he collapsed to the ground.

“Cas got ‘im,” Ellen said. “But where the hell is Jo?”

Another figure appeared behind Cas and grabbed him around the shoulders. Dean could see Cas struggle a bit before slamming him back into the ground. Cas leaped to his feet and slammed something into its chest. Again, light shot from the body. Two more descended on him and Castiel handled them in much the same way. They were dead in seconds.

“Jesus,” was all Dean could say.

Dean had never seen Castiel fight, not really. Every bar fight they’d gotten into was all Dean’s doing. There was a big, oafish guy in town who had a real problem with Dean. Mike was his name. Three whiskeys in one night, Dean was barely buzzed when Mike tapped him on the shoulder, saying Dean was in his seat. Dean laughed. Mike threw a punch and hit Dean square in the jaw. Dean stumbled over and nearly hit his head on the bar on the stool next to him. He stood up as quickly as his dazed head would allow him only to see Mike flat on his back. Dean had asked what happened and Cas just shrugged. 

“Tell him to stop,” Ellen ordered.

“What?” Dean said, perplexed. “From where I’m sitting, Cas is kicking ass.”

“Yeah, but he’s wasting his energy,” Ellen said. “That first demon he zapped with his hands, did you see that?”

“So?” Dean asked.

“So Cas hasn’t been operating on full power,” Ellen said. “He’s losing it. He shouldn’t be wasting it on minor henchmen like this. The blade is all physical skill, but the light show is pure angel energy.”

Castiel was standing off in the distance, his blade straight up. He was completely still. He was waiting.

Dean sighed and closed his eyes. “Cas, I dunno if you can hear me, but… uh… take it down a notch, OK?”

Dean opened his eyes again. It was hard to tell, but Dean could have sworn Cas’s head turned toward them for a moment. He then started walking off into the trees. He disappeared.

“Shit,” Ellen said. “There are two more at least.” She picked up the megaphone and switched it on. “Cover your ears. This is gonna be loud.” Putting it to her mouth, she chanted, “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…_ ”

Her voice bounced off the trees and echoed several times. Dean ducked and put his hands over his ears. Ellen was obviously way more practiced with the exorcism than Dean was as she raced through it like Latin was her first language.

“… _audi nos_!” she finished.

Something high pitched wailed in the distance. Dean strained his eyes trying to see what it was, but the woods looked empty.

Ellen put the megaphone down. “I think we got it.”

“You did,” someone said. It was Cas, standing on the other side of the gate. His tie was more disheveled than usual, but other than that, he looked fairly unscathed. “But I was handling it.”

“You sure were,” Ellen grumbled, eyeing Cas disapprovingly. “Where’s Jo?”

“Here!” Jo appeared from behind one of the trees, clutching her gun. “You only exorcised the one, Mom. I got the first one.”

“Well, Cas got four,” Dean added with a cocky smirk.

Jo snorted, but otherwise didn’t respond. She headed for the gate and pulled out a key. There was a massive chain and lock holding the gates together. The iron, ring of salt, and pictographs around the gate had to be enough to keep demons away. But the chain wasn’t there for the demons. Dean suspected it was for keeping other people out. If word got out that they had years of food and medicine stored in there, desperate people might come a-knockin’.

Bobby had said Dean might have to fight his fellow man over toilet paper. He shuddered at the thought.

When Jo and Cas were safely on the other side of the gate, Ellen folded her arms over her chest and said, “Joanna Beth Harvelle, what did I say about radio silence?”

Jo took the strap of her rifle and slung it over her shoulder. “One of the demons had a gun and shot my walkie.”

“So what did I say you do when you don’t have a walkie?” Ellen demanded.

Jo shot a glance at Dean and Cas, then frowned. “Don’t pass the gates without a walkie. But Mom-“

“That’s right!” Ellen said. “You don’t go out there without some way of communicating with me, you hear? You know better than to do that, Joanna Beth.”

“Mom!” Jo snapped and started heading back toward the house. “They were just baby demons. They didn’t even use any telekinesis on me!”

“A demon’s a demon!” Ellen responded. “And don’t you walk away from me, young lady!”

Dean flashed a look at Cas then motioned for him to back away. Cas followed as Dean walked along the chain link fence, leaving the women to have it out.

The only conversations Dean had had with Ellen were about the apocalypse and survival. Jo barely said five words to him that weren’t some sort of insult to his manhood. But hearing the concern in Ellen’s voice, and the way she was scolding Jo, Dean’s stomach tightened. They were hunters, yes, and could probably kill the average man five times before he hit the ground, but they were also a family. Daughters disobeyed mothers. Mothers yelled at daughters. That was normal. That was the way the world was supposed to work. Jo looked to be about Sam’s age, maybe a bit younger, and judging by the whiney tone in her voice, his estimation was about right. She should be fresh out of college at some job she sort of liked but would probably quit in a couple years. She should be worrying about student loan debt, not demons jumping her or when they’d run out of food or if today would be her last day alive. Now there was nothing to look forward to but surviving.

Dean could hardly say he lived a fulfilling life, but Jo should have gotten the chance.

Sam should have gotten the chance.

Reading about Slate and Donovan, Dean hadn’t for on second connected the books to Sam and him. Sure, Slate was the bookish one, the one who always knew exactly where to find out how to gank a baddie, but Dean’s problem was he and Sam, Donovan and Slate, their relationships were complete polar opposites.

The brothers in the books died for each other. Repeatedly. Almost every book. They constantly put their asses on the line for each other. They got tortured, physically, emotionally, mentally, for each other. Slate was Donovan’s world. Donovan was Slate’s. They argued all the time, but it was different. They yelled at each other because they were risking their lives and doing stupid shit to protect one another.

That was family.

“Cas,” Dean said when they were far enough away so Ellen and Jo couldn’t hear, “I gotta ask you something I was afraid to ask before.”

Cas nodded. He seemed tired again, though in better shape than he was yesterday.

“When your angel powers were at full, you could teleport yourself anywhere in the world, right?” Dean confirmed.

“Right,” Cas answered.

“Did you ever visit my brother?” Dean asked.

“I did watch over Sam Winchester occasionally,” Cas said.

Dean tightened his jaw. “Why?”

Cas sighed. “As I said, Sam was the original vessel of Lucifer, but the prophecy changed. I was checking on him to make sure he was alright.”

“Again, I gotta ask why?” Dean said.

Cas cocked his head to the side. “Sam is important. Even though he is not the vessel, he’s still important to us.”

“Us?” Dean asked in confusion.

“You,” Cas answered. “Bobby, Ellen, Jo, and me. They may not know him personally, but Sam is family regardless.”

Dean had just seen Cas kung-fu the asses of four demons, but the man before him was not the same guy. There was an innocence in his voice that made Dean’s chest tighten.

“Yeah, well,” Dean spoke before he could delve too deeply into his current feelings, “then you probably know how Sam feels about me.”

Cas squinted. “Human emotions are complicated, and I can’t say I understand them completely, but…” He paused and looked at the ground. “Sam blames you for your father’s death. But he doesn’t hate you. He can’t. He wants to, he’s tried, and I would know. I’ve heard his thoughts.”

Dean blinked. “You can read minds?” He quickly tried to think of baseball.

“Not all the time,” Cas said. “Only when I choose to listen, or in cases of extreme emotional distress.”

“Huh,” Dean responded, still trying to keep his mind fairly blank.

But a thought did cross Dean’s mind despite his efforts. It had been hiding in some dark space between his repressed memories, but it had been there since this all went down.

“I need you to answer me honestly on this next question,” Dean said, catching Cas’s gaze.

Cas didn’t blink. “Of course.”

“Ellen said the apocalypse wiped out a bunch of people with some crustacean disease,” Dean started.

“Croatoan,” Cas corrected. “And they’re not exactly wiped out. They’re simply mindless, violent shells of their former selves.”

“Yeah that,” Dean said with a shudder. “Is Sam… I mean, did Sam… Oh fuck, do you know if Sam…?”

Cas shook his head. “Sam is fine. Even in my weakened state, I can still sense his presence, and he isn’t infected. But I can’t pinpoint his exact location, unfortunately. He’s… generally hard for me to pin down.”

“He’d be in San Francisco,” Dean said. “It’s a big city, but it’s a start.”

Cas cocked his head to the other side for a moment before suddenly straightening his head. “Dean, you don’t mean to try to go to San Francisco to find him?”

Dean turned toward the fence and looked out into the trees. The sun was gone behind them and it was getting dark.

“I can’t stay here forever,” Dean muttered. “I can’t stay knowing Sam’s out there. Dad’s dead, Mom’s the devil, I ain’t got nobody else but my little brother.”

Cas was silent for a few moments.

“I’ll find Sam then we’ll go together back to Lawrence and figure out how to kick Lucifer’s ass out of Mom,” Dean said confidently, though in actuality, he didn’t have any clue how to go about doing that. Lucifer seemed pretty adamant about staking his claim in Mary Winchester.

When Cas didn’t say anything, Dean turned back to face him. He stood there, his arms limp at his sides, looking just as awkward as usual. He wasn’t that kickass angel Dean had seen just minutes before. He was the dorky, weird man who followed Dean from bar to bar like they were attached at the hip.

“I’m coming with you,” Cas said quickly, as if he were afraid to say it.

“No,” Dean said, “they need you here. I can do this on my own.”

Cas stepped closer to Dean. He was about a foot away. Dean could feel the warmth from his chest.

“Dean,” Cas said, his voice low. “I go where you go.”

Dean inhaled. He smelled something. Sweat. It wasn’t his own. He scanned Cas’s face and saw a single bead of perspiration drip from the angel’s hairline. The man who wore a three piece suit and a trench coat on a hot, humid July day in Kansas without taking so much as a sip of water was sweating.

With a nod, he put a hand on Cas’s shoulder. 


	27. Chapter 27

April 13, 2010 – Bukit Timah, Singapore

Frederick Lau whimpered as slipped and fell a few feet from his indoor pool. He glanced all around him, but saw nothing. He covered his ears, trying to silence the snarling around him. That was the wrong move. Why the man headed straight for the pool was a mystery, but humans were hard to explain.

The hell hound leaped at him and grabbed the billionaire businessman by the throat. She tossed him around like a chew toy. The man gurgled, blood filling his lungs. His larynx came out. The hell hound let it fall from her mouth before snapping her jaws at his chest. The heart was next. That was the juiciest part.

Satisfied, the hell hound trotted away and licked her chops. Crowley patted her on the head.

“Not in the mood for a swim, love?” he cooed as she wagged her tail. “Who’s a good girl?”

With the job done, she dissipated, dragging Mr. Lau’s soul down to hell.

Crowley sighed as he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a paper list. He ticked off Frederick Lau and returned the paper to his pocket. He stared down at his leather shoes to see he was standing over the drain, a small puddle of pool water collected around it.

Pools. One of humanity’s worst inventions. The little meatsacks were vulnerable enough without purposely placing themselves in a stagnant expanse of water with hard sides that were just begging for a head to bang itself against. Not to mention the innumerable diseases and the amount of urine and fecal matter floating around. Crowley hadn’t a clue how they could be so painfully dense about their own safety.

He almost regretted the fact that a good number of these imbeciles’ souls were under his care. Now, Crowley wasn’t fooling anyone. He was always of the mind that a deserving soul truly did belong in hell. That was why he made deals with politicians, celebrities, and business people. But every time some middle age mother of three summoned a crossroads demon to make herself look young again, or some dumb teenage boy wanted to look like the Rock so he could totally kick ass, Crowley couldn’t get to a glass of scotch quick enough.

And it was only about to get worse.

It was high time for the apocalypse, and Crowley was taking all the necessary precautions. He’d made as many deals with some of the most powerful, conniving, greedy people on earth about ten years ago. Now he was collecting. It felt good, but it was all bitter sweet as this would probably be the last time he’d get to do what he loved in a luxury penthouse that cost more than most people saw in their lifetimes.

Crowley was a man of indulgence, after all. He’d eaten fifteen course meals with Louis XVI as they laughed at the beggars outside the palace gates. He and John D. Rockefeller once paid a hundred women to prance around naked just so they could see how many would fit in the estate. One of the Hilton sisters picked him up from London in a private jet just so they could get an authentic New York-style pizza from this one place in Manhattan.

Ah, the good life.

The apocalypse would certainly put a cramp on his style.

He knew the drill. The world would go to shit. Money would be worthless, unless you needed it as toilet paper. Gold, silver, fancy watches, surround sound systems, none of it would mean anything. Crowley had built his business around the model that greed was good, and excess was success.

With people inevitably eating bark off trees in winter, they’d be making deals simply for a steady food supply for themselves and their families. Crowley nearly gagged at the thought. Sure, he could make those deals. The contract was binding whether someone wanted all the money in the world or a simple fried egg on toast. In theory, it didn’t matter. But out of principle, Crowley loathed those deals. He couldn’t bring himself anywhere near those sad, little people. It was all or nothing.

“Sir,” someone said behind him.

Crowley turned to see a woman in a black pantsuit, her hair tied back in a neat bun. She was wearing a low cut blouse under her blazer. Crowley could see a mole on her right tit.

“You better have good news or I’m seeing how long your meatsuit can hold its breath in this pool before it drowns,” Crowley spat.

She smiled. “I believe you will be pleased with what I have for you, sir.”

Crowley had been so distracted by that mole that he didn’t notice she had something wrapped in brown paper in her hands. He snapped his fingers and the package was in his hands. If Crowley had a working heart, it would have been beating a million times a minute. Thankfully, his heart was cold and dead.

“We had to kill an angel for it,” the woman said. “The angel took out seventeen of-“

“Collateral damage. We’ve got the budget for it,” Crowley interrupted, not bothering to look at her. His eyes were fixed on the package in his hands. He squeezed it tightly, almost to make sure it was real.

Beneath the brown paper, he could feel something throbbing and warm. Crowley grinned perversely, the thought of a throbbing, warm package not lost on him.

“What of the others who acquired this lovely prize?” Crowley asked, his fingertips gently grazing the paper.

“There were no others,” she answered. “I kept the team small just as you asked. There were just four core members, and fourteen muscle. Everyone died except me.” She smiled proudly.

Crowley smirked back at her. “Aren’t you the lucky one? And what does my champion expect as a reward…er… what was your name again?”

Her smile grew bigger. “Yvonne.”

“Yvonne, you should be rewarded, eh?” He walked toward her.

She looked nearly giddy with excitement. “I want this flat. Pool and everything. And a bottomless bank account. Yeah, that’s what I want!”

“I do love a woman who knows exactly what she wants,” Crowley said with a chuckle. “Alright, darling, close your eyes and the lease on this exquisite penthouse suite shall be in your hands, all bills paid for by a one Mr. Frederick Lau.”

She obeyed, still smiling.

Crowley held the package under his left arm and with his right hand grabbed her elbow. She stumbled forward a bit, taken off guard. He whirled her around and shoved her on the shoulder. She slipped on the wet, Italian marble tiles and fell backwards into the pool. She screamed as her body seared as if it were submerged in a vat of acid.

“Hope you understand,” Crowley said, standing far enough from the edge of the pool so he wouldn’t get splashed. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s the common demon. Show you lot the right flashy new car or truckload of entrails and you’ll sell out your own king without a second thought.”

She briefly tried to leave the meatsuit, black smoke peeking out of her yowling mouth, but the water engulfed her, filling her lungs.

“Can’t have you blabbing to Luci’s minions, can we?” Crowley smirked.

She writhed at the bottom of the pool for a minute then went still.

Crowley watched her motionless corpse for a minute. “Very clever on Mr. Lau,” Crowley said to himself, amused. “A pool full of holy water. Must give him points for trying.”

A bubble floated to the surface and popped.

******

April 24, 2010 – San Francisco, CA

Sam checked his watch every other minute. He stared at a pen that had a cap scarred with teeth marks from someone who obviously had an oral fixation. He moved the pen holder out of his line of sight and turned his gaze to the radio in front of him. With one hand, he adjusted the dial a hair, but only caught static.

Ruby was perched on a desk nearby, biting her nails and kicking the drawers below with her heels. She was just as nervous as he was, though she’d managed to stay focused on the door repair they’d done earlier that day. The broken glass door was now completely covered by the plywood and some sheet metal Sam had found at Home Depot. He’d taken one of those large, orange carts from the store and grabbed hammers, nails, duct tape, whatever he thought would be necessary. When he finished, he walked past the corpse of the zombie he’d stabbed earlier, careful not to look at it, and headed for the house. He filled what little space remained in the cart with whatever food was in the pantry. The cart had made a racket going down the street and nearly tipped over twice, but Sam managed to get it to the police station.

In his absence, Ruby had found keys to the back door. Sam’s assumption was right: the backdoor was steel with no windows. It was an emergency exit. Ruby told him she found the switch in the basement by the circuit breaker that disabled the alarm on the door. Sam was happy to be with someone who seemed to know how electrical stuff worked because he didn’t have a clue.

They’d make the front impenetrable – or as impenetrable as they could – and got in and out through the back.  They had to nail the boards from the inside because the outside was brick. Sam improvised the sheet metal parts with a lot of duct tape. It was shoddy, and he gave it a few kicks from the outside to test the integrity. It didn’t move much, but he was sure anyone with a bit of tenacity could eventually get through. Ruby had the idea of setting up booby traps in the short hallway that led to reception. Sam found road spikes used to blow out tires. With the lights out in the hallway, it was hard to see them on the floor. Someone rushing in at night would puncture their foot clean through.

Through all that, Sam had his mind on one thing. Three o’clock. Dean would radio back. Sam had a map of California ready. He checked the radio to make sure it was working. No one responded when he spoke into the receiver, but at least they heard the gentle buzz of radio static.

Sam checked his watch. It was three. He leaned forward and held his breath.

Dean wasn’t the most punctual person in the world. When Sam used to get up at exactly 7:45 so he could start watching the entire block of Saturday morning cartoons, Dean would stumble downstairs in a hurry at 8:30, yelling at Sam for not waking him. In high school, Dean was the star quarterback on the football team, but Sam imagined the coach probably broke many a clipboard on Dean’s thick skull for showing up late to practice nearly every time.

Dean was also late to Dad’s funeral.

Sam tried not to think about that. These were different times. Dad was dead, mercifully saved from what was happening on earth now. After seeing people rip each other to shreds, the car accident seemed so painfully normal at this point.

After Sam had killed three people with his own two hands, everything from his past life seemed normal.

A chill went down his spine. He’d have to tell Dean he’d killed Jessica and two other people. He had to. Dean and Jessica may not have been the best of friends, but she was still family to him, and he had the right to know. Just like Dean had told him about Mom.

Except Dean didn’t kill Mom.

No, Sam had to tell Dean because Dean had the right to know that his brother was a murderer. 

“What time is it now?” Ruby broke the silence.

Sam glanced at his watch. “3:03.”

They continued their silence, but Sam found his body growing tenser. He was hunched over, like being closer to the radio would somehow prompt Dean to make contact. His jaw was clenched and he knew his neck would be stiff the next day from doing it. The sound of his own blood rushing through his skill echoed in his ears.

“Maybe he doesn’t have a watch?” Ruby suggested a few minutes later.

“He does,” Sam answered quickly.

Dean wore one of those old watches you had to wind. It had a leather strap that had probably at one point been dark brown, but now it was crinkled and almost tan. Dad had given it to him on his eighteenth birthday. It had been his father’s, a man Dad had never known. Dad told Dean to wind it every two weeks. Dean wasn’t typically careful with his things, but he treated that watch like it was a newborn baby. Every Sunday night after dinner, when they’d sit in front of the TV, watching a game or a movie in the off season, Dean would take two fingers and carefully wind the watch.

Sam and Ruby sat in front of the radio for an hour.

Ruby had a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “He could have gotten rescued. Or maybe he found shelter. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“You don’t know that,” Sam snapped, not looking up at her.

He heard her sigh. “I mean, I don’t know that, yeah, but there are a million places he could be other than by that semi.”

Sam leaned back in the chair and put his hand over his eyes. The chair creaked under his weight.

“He said he was going to walk,” Sam recalled. “Why did I let him go off on foot to god knows where? Alone? I’m so fucking stupid.”

“You’re not stupid!” Ruby insisted as she started rubbing his shoulder. It was comforting. “What’s happening now is… it’s messed up. No one knows what they’re doing. We’re lucky we found this police station.” She paused. “And we’re lucky neither of us is infected. We’re lucky we found each other.”

Sam put his hands back down on the reception desk. He swiveled the chair around and faced Ruby. She was standing over him, her brown eyes fixed in a concerned expression, but she was smiling. She looked relieved. Sam couldn’t blame her for finding the silver lining in all of this.

Without thinking, he stood. He wrapped his arms around her petite frame. He was a good foot taller than her, but he gently leaned down and touched his cheek to the top her head. She face was buried in his chest. It felt good to hold another human being. Tears began to well up in his eyes, but he held them back.

Ruby tilted her head up and their eyes met. Sam bent down further. Their lips touched.

She pulled away. “Oh god, Sam! I’m sorry! You just lost your… I mean, I’m so sorry!”

Sam threw his arms up in shock as she bolted toward the back of the office to the emergency exit.

“Ruby, wait!” he said following her.

“I’m sorry!” she repeated. “I need to get some air.” The door slammed behind her.

Sam was left standing, perplexed and angry at himself. Ruby was absolutely right to have pulled away, but it definitely wasn’t her fault. He was the one who not twenty-four hours earlier snapped his own wife’s neck. What the hell was he thinking kissing another woman?

He shook and collapsed back into the chair.

When it all came down to it, Sam was a horrible person. A dirty, horrible, murdering piece of shit.

“Breaker breaker, I got a cotton tail bubba shrimp enchilada ding dong for ya!”

Sam whirled around in the chair. He picked up the receiver and held down the button. “Dean?”

“Well howdy do, Sam I Am,” Dean’s voice responded in an exaggerated Texas accent. “What’s your ten forty, ya varmint?”

“Dean!” Sam cried, angry yet relieved to hear his brother making jokes. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Got a little tied up down at the ol’ waterin’ hole,” he continued with the accent. “Abandoned roadside diners sho’ do have the finest whiskey round he-ya. Oops, sorry, that accent sounded more New Orleans. What am I going for? ‘Ello gov! Naw, that’s English.”

Drunk. Of course. Even as humanity transformed into throat-ripping zombies, Dean Winchester would be getting sloshed.

“Did you find other supplies?” Sam asked, trying to ignore the elephant in the room.

“Couple gallons water, diner had some canned goods, meat and eggs in the fridge,” he said, his voice slightly distant like he was turning away. “Some short order cook must’ve left his copy of _Busty Asian Beauties_ behind because it’s mine now.”

Sam was glad Dean couldn’t see his eyes roll.

“Sammy, you OK?” Dean’s voice suddenly turned serious.

Clearing his throat, Sam answered, “I’m OK, considering. All the houses around here seem to be abandoned. I think we’ll have canned food and non-perishables at least for a few months. Water might be a different story.”

“A few months?” Dean said with a hiccup. “You really think this is gonna last that long?”

“No clue,” Sam replied. “Just… I guess we gotta prepare for the worst.”

The worst. Like the situation could get any worse.

“True dat!” Dean said, obviously returning to his own private party. He then started singing, “ _It’s the end of the world as we know it_ … nananana _Leonard Bernstein_! Can never remember the words, damn it.”

“Dean,” Sam said through clenched teeth. “You need to sober up, sleep it off in the truck, and drive here at sunrise.”

“No can do, Sammy,” Dean said with a laugh. “Tried the truck. Engine’s busted. I don’t have the tools to fix it. Oh and my pickup? Nearly out of gas.”

“Find a gas station,” Sam stated the obvious.

Dean laughed again. “That’s a negative, little brother. Found a gas station on fire. Saw it burning about half a mile away. Then there was a sign that was like, ‘Last rest stop for 35 miles.’ I’m in the middle of the desert somewhere. I’m in the frickin’ badlands. I only got like three gallons of water on me. I start walking during the day, I fry like an egg. Forget walking at night. Even with the stars out it’s still dark. There are coyotes and those fucking zombies out here. I need to be able to see them if I’m going to fend them off. Would probably freeze to death too.”

Sam bit the inside of his cheek.

“I’m fucked, Sam.” Dean’s voice was shaking. His jovial façade was breaking down. That was the Dean Winchester way.

One night, sometime last year, Sam got a phone call at three in the morning. His eyes were too filled with sleep for him to properly check the caller ID, otherwise he wouldn’t have picked up. When he answered the phone, Dean’s slurred voice blasted in his ear. It was loud enough that Jessica woke up next to him. Dean said something about seeing a tall, skinny guy in the bar. The guy apparently had brown hair and reminded him of Sam. He said the guy was nice, but a prick. When Sam asked how someone could be nice and a prick, Dean had mumbled that Sam would know. Then Dean said he was sorry for bothering him and hung up.

Dean only said sorry when he was drowning in liquor.

“I’ll come to you,” Sam suggested desperately.

“No no no,” Dean insisted. “First of all, I don’t want you sticking your neck out for me. Second, unless you’re familiar with the address of huge ass cactus and brown lump that’s probably something dead, I couldn’t tell you where the fuck I am. You’d be just as lost as I am trying to come out here.”

Dean was right. He was right and Sam hated it.

“What are you going to do?” Sam was afraid to ask, but he did anyway.

“Finish this bottle of whiskey,” Dean answered, chuckling again. “Hope alcohol poisoning gets me first. Though with the tolerance I built up over the years, that might take a tanker full of tequila to do the trick.” He paused. “But I dunno, Sam. I dunno. Hope the Jawas drive by and mistake me for a busted up droid.”

“Dean, no,” Sam said in almost a whimper. “You have to try. Please. You can’t just wait around for…”

“For death?” Dean finished his sentence then guffawed into the receiver. “Jesus, Sam, don’t be so dramatic. Someone’s bound to come by. It’s a major highway. We can’t be the only ones left alive. Didn’t you say that before?”

Sam pulled at the cord connecting the receiver to the main part of the radio nervously.

“So uh,” Dean said after a while. “The radio uses the battery, and I’m not sure how much longer we can talk about me dying before it goes caput. Wanna pick this up tomorrow? I promise not to be late again.”

“OK,” Sam agreed. “Sleep up in the cabin in the semi if it has one. Lock the doors. You still have that ax?”

“I got my Chuck Norris fists,” Dean said. “Naw, seriously, I got the ax, yeah. And Dad’s old hunting rifle was in the pickup. How do you think I’ve been fending them off?”

Sam felt a bit relieved knowing about the gun. Dean was an impeccable shot. He was even better than Dad had been.

“OK,” Sam said. “So tomorrow, let’s say 8 AM? Don’t be late.”

“8 AM?” Dean replied. “Where do you have to go during the apocalypse? You got a dentist appointment?”

“Fine, 9 AM,” Sam replied. “I guess this is over and out.”

“Over and out,” Dean’s voice said.

Then there was static.

Sam put the receiver down and headed toward the emergency exit. He touched his jean pocket to quickly make sure he still had the key. He opened the door and saw Ruby leaning against the brick wall outside. She jumped slightly at the sound of the door.

“Hey,” Sam said.

Ruby looked out at the few baby trees that were planted next to the parking lot in front of them. There were a couple squad cars and a van some yards away.

“I’m so sorry, Sam,” Ruby said, her voice heavy with sincerity. “I’m just… I was just so… I have no idea what’s going on, and I’m just so glad you’re here.”

Sam offered her a small smile. “I’m glad you’re here too, Ruby.”

She faced him. “I shouldn’t have-“

He stopped her. “No no, I shouldn’t have. I think we’re feeling the same thing. It’s just the stress of the whole situation.”

She nodded and walked past him through the door. Sam made sure the door closed securely behind them.

“My brother finally contacted us,” Sam changed the subject.

Ruby turned around, a smile on her face. “What did he say?”

Her eyes were warm, her smile wide. She was probably about his age, maybe a year or two older, but she seemed so innocent. So naïve. Her hands were clean and his were not.

“He’s on his way,” Sam lied. “Might take a few days because the roads are blocked, but he’ll be here soon enough.”

Ruby sighed with relief. “It’ll be nice to have more people here.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed.


	28. Chapter 28

April 13, 2010 – Lawrence, KS

Mary kicked off her shoes and placed them neatly on the shoe shelf next to the door. She sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Squinting at those receipts with low lighting was doing a number on her vision. She tried to convince herself that taking breaks would make the headaches go away, but she knew better. It was old age. She was 56 and her vision had been going for years. Nothing dramatic. It was just hard to see text in front of her, though distance was still alright. She shuddered at the idea of having to wear bifocals.

The visions didn’t help with the headaches either.

“Dean?” she called up the stairs.

No response. It was past eleven and Dean was probably at a bar. He never told her where he went after work, but Mary was no fool. History was repeating itself. Dean had had a taste for the sauce since he was a teenager, but these past few years had been rough. No, rough was an understatement.

Of course, Mary mourned John’s death. She’d been with the man over thirty years. They’d been in love. At points in their life together, at least. Mary still loved John in a way, even when he wouldn’t call for days on end, or would show up at the boys’ games or science fairs drunk as a skunk. When they were younger, the boys could never tell. But Mary couldn’t help but feel that they knew their daddy was off. He laughed more. He talked more. He also yelled more.

Dean was the same, though he never once raised his voice to her. She just had to worry about getting the call one morning that they’d found her son beaten to death because he picked a fight with the wrong guy.

At least, that’s what she worried about before.

There was something else on her mind nowadays.

Two months back, an old hunting buddy of her father’s called her. It had been a bit of an unspoken rule not to contact Mary Winchester for anything hunter related. Sure, it was alright to send her a cryptic post card to let her know when a hunter got killed in action. The postcard would usually read something like, “Bill’s gone home.” She appreciated that courtesy. When John got the mail before Mary got a chance to intercept it, he’d ask who Bill or Joe or Rachel was. Mary would say some Campbell she barely knew. In some cases, it actually was a Campbell. He didn’t press further.

But this hunting buddy, Nick, called her directly. He had said the demon activity was picking up all over the country. Mary should watch her back. Mary thanked him politely and told him never to call her house again. She hung up.

A few weeks later, she got curious. She started searching the internet for stories of everyday people suddenly acting bat shit crazy. She found a lot more than she anticipated. Man slays wife with decorative sword in Albany. Seventh grader beheads classmate in Des Moines. Three people manage to push a school bus off a cliff outside Denver.

The demons were acting up, that was for sure. Yet Lawrence and the surrounding area were quiet. Too quiet. And Mary knew why.

The doorbell chimed. Mary jumped. She headed for the cabinet under the kitchen sink. She’d fastened a gun holster just out of reach of the cleaning products. She grabbed the pistol. It was small, but it contained a round of silver bullets infused with holy water. She tucked the gun into the back of her slacks.

She peeked out the peep hole at the front door and sighed.

“Castiel!” she said as she opened the door. “What on earth are you doing here at this time of night? Dean’s out.”

Castiel stood on the welcome mat and blinked at her. He had a serious expression on his face.

Mary brought her hand to her mouth. “Oh god, is Dean…?”

“Dean’s fine,” Castiel answered. “May I come in?”

Mary relaxed and ushered him into the kitchen. She offered him a seat at the table, but he shook his head.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour,” Castiel said. His brow was furrowed into a worried expression.

In the over three years that Mary had known Castiel, she’d normally only seen two looks on his face: utter confusion and something resembling lovesickness. He’d gotten better on the former over the years, but since she’d met him in the hospital, Castiel seemed like everything he saw, heard, touched, or smelled was new to him. The way he walked and talked was like he was doing it for the first time, awkward in the way he approached the world around him.

Mary took the necessary precautions. The man may have saved her son’s life, and he seemed as harmless as a newborn kitten, but Mary knew better than to blindly trust odd people who just dropped into her life. She hated her suspicious nature, but that was just how she was raised. Plus, whenever the man visited, Castiel seemed to never leave Dean’s side.

The second or third time he showed up at the house, Mary dipped her hand in holy water and gave Castiel a gentle pat on the hand. No reaction. She wore a silver and iron necklace around her neck and gave him a hug, making sure the chain touched his neck. Nothing. She whispered various warding incantations as she floated in and out of the kitchen where Castiel and Dean were talking. Nothing.

Maybe Castiel was just an odd guy.

The second look Mary always saw on Castiel’s face was far less worrying. In fact, it warmed Mary’s heart. Castiel would usually show up at their house unannounced in the morning, ringing the doorbell and always asking politely if he could come in. He’d wait patiently in the kitchen, holding a cup of coffee but never drinking it. When Dean got up, he’d stand.

In the first few months as Dean was recovering, he couldn’t go to work. His leg was broken, and that even kept him away from the bar for a while. He slept on the couch in the living room because going up and down the stairs was a hassle. On weekdays, when Mary said she was off to work, Castiel would tell her he’d watch over Dean while she was gone. She always smiled when he said that.

On the weekends, Mary would sit in the kitchen and read the paper while Castiel would cradle the mug in front of him patiently. Sometimes she’d ask him to help her change a light bulb or tidy up. He seemed confused at the notion at first, but Mary walked him through it. After he changed his first light bulb, he got down from the step ladder and beamed. He was proud.

When Dean woke up that morning and hobbled in to the kitchen on crutches, Castiel told him triumphantly that he’d changed a light bulb. Dean grunted and headed for the Mr. Coffee. His eyes were half closed and he squinted at the light shining down from the freshly changed bulb, but Mary could see a slight smile on her son’s face. She caught him shooting a glance at Castiel before returning to his grumpy bedhead routine.

Dean hardly smiled anymore. Every smile counted for something.

“I must discuss a matter of great import,” Castiel said.

“Shoot,” Mary said, leaning against the kitchen counter, suddenly concerned.

Castiel sighed and looked up at the cabinets. “I vowed never to drag any of you Winchesters into this, but I’m afraid I have no choice.”

Mary frowned. “Drag us into what?” She ignored the fact that it felt strange to be called a Winchester when she hadn’t felt like one in a couple years. She was actually planning to legally change her name back to Campbell.

Castiel met her gaze. “I know of your previous occupation, Mary.”

She tensed slightly, though all her hunter training had taught her never to make it visible.

“You mean my job at the diner before I had kids?” she tried. Maybe this was some weird Castiel thing.

“No,” he said flatly. “I know what you and your ancestors have been doing for centuries. I know you were a hunter.”

Her training was telling her to reach for the gun. She’d been sloppy. She wasn’t thorough enough with the tests. This man had come into her son’s life with nothing but kindness to… Well, she couldn’t think of any creatures that saved people’s lives then hung out with them for over three years just to eat their flesh or whatever.

“I’ve never killed an animal in my life!” Mary insisted, hoping that was what he meant. “I killed a spider in the bathroom yesterday and nearly cried.”

Castiel’s expression got sterner. “I know you hunted the supernatural. I know you’ve successfully exorcised demons. You were a brave, competent hunter when you were young.”

Mary scoffed at the last bit. “Castiel, I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but maybe you should leave.”

Castiel sighed. “Mary, I am only bringing this up because the end is coming. We only have ten days until the apocalypse comes and Lucifer walks the earth.” He paused and stared directly into her eyes. “But you already knew that.”

She looked down at the floor. She should do something. Holy water. Castiel was maybe possessed. But what was the point? If he had wanted to kill her, he would have done it already. Plus, he was right. She did know what was coming. Lucifer had been whispering in her ear for years.

“Mary,” Castiel went on, “despite what you’re thinking now, I do not intend to bring you any harm. I’m no friend of Lucifer’s, but I am yours. And I am begging you not to let him in.”

“How do you know about all this?” Mary snapped.

Castiel suddenly stepped back. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. They were glowing a shade of blue she’d never seen before. He then twitched slightly and a shadow formed behind him. The shadow began to whirl and take on some sort of shape. Wings.

Mary clutched the kitchen counter. “My god,” was all she could manage. She knew they were real; Lucifer had made sure his presence was well known, but she’d never seen one up close. Yet all this time, the odd man who’d saved her son and did the occasional chore around the house was one of them. No wonder basic human functions seemed bizarre to him.

Eyes returning to normal and wings dissipating into the air, Castiel slumped forward a bit. He then tried to straighten himself out as best he could before continuing, “It doesn’t have to be this way. You do not have to be Lucifer’s vessel.”

Mary scrunched up her face. “No, you’re right. I don’t. But you know very well what the alternative is, don’t you? I can’t put him through this.”

“Sam is very dear to you,” Castiel stated the obvious. “I would not wish such a fate on him, but he is stronger than you think. I can convince him to reject Lucifer.”

Mary nearly laughed. “Oh right, you’re just going to flutter in, announce yourself as an angel, and drop the bomb on him that the devil and all the monsters of his nightmares are real? I worked my whole life to keep this nonsense away from my family. I won’t let anyone, not you, not Lucifer, ruin their lives like my father ruined mine.”

“If Lucifer ascends to earth, Sam and Dean will learn very quickly that all of this is real,” Castiel noted. He seemed confident, aggressive. This wasn’t the Castiel Mary knew.

She shook her head. “I know. I would do anything – _anything_ – to save them from this. I’ve tried. I’ve tried for over thirty-five years to find a way around this. But this is god’s will we’re talking about. You of all people should know there’s no fighting god’s will.”

Castiel turned away, looking at the kitchen table. He said nothing for a while.

His eyes met hers again as he broke the silence. “When you are Lucifer, you will be unstoppable. You will do horrible, cruel things, perhaps even to your sons. You will obliterate humanity. Have you accepted this fate?”

Of course she hadn’t. Despite her hunter past, Mary was a gentle soul. But she saw herself wiping out entire populations. She saw herself strangling children. She wept after those visions. She’d kept it silent all these years, but now it was close. She could feel it. She could feel Lucifer’s desire to destroy.

“I have,” Mary lied.

Castiel didn’t blink as he stared at her. “Then there is no other alternative.”

“Cas,” Mary whispered. “Please. Please understand.”

He looked away again, sighing. He did. She could read it on his face.

Mary reached out toward him and embraced him. He stiffened at first, but relaxed after a while.

“Please,” she whispered in his ear, “look after Dean.”

She let go. He was gone.

******

April 25, 2010 – Sioux Falls, SD

Dean spent most of the night lying on his back staring up at the ceiling. It wasn’t just that he was put up on the couch in Bobby’s study. It wasn’t just that he was indescribably nervous about peacing out of the Singer Compound as soon as the sun crept up over the pine trees. It wasn’t even just that Cas was pacing around the room, stopping only to stare down at him for a few minutes before asking if Dean was awake.

It was the fact that Dean hadn’t had a drink in over 24 hours.

Dean had done some snooping before bed, sniffing around for a sip of anything. Ellen had eyed him suspiciously, but Dean said he was just looking for a piece of gum. Ash had handed him a piece of Trident from his back pocket. Dean brushed off the lint and chewed it while Ellen squinted at him.

The way Ellen had barked about restricting Bobby’s alcohol intake, Dean surmised that the man probably had a decent stash of the stuff somewhere. There wasn’t enough room in the kitchen cabinets, seeing as those were stuffed with canned goods and room-temperature holy water. Dean had peeked in Bobby’s bedroom, but the place was barebones with just a bed and a small dresser. There could be a flask hidden in there somewhere, but Dean had a feeling Bobby wasn’t the type to take kindly to strange men sneaking around his bedroom.

The booze could be in the Harvelle’s shack. Bobby had partially converted one of the garages into a makeshift guest house. The ventilation seemed a bit shoddy, and it smelled like gasoline, but Ellen and Jo seemed fine with having their own place. Ash’s little shack was even smaller. It might as well have been an outhouse. Yet Ash had stacks of electronic equipment and 1970s Playboys in there. No way a single bottle of Jack could fit in what little space he had.

No, Ellen had to have locked up the liquor in the basement. It had to be there.

Dean sat up on the couch and tossed the old blanket off of him. The blanket had some cowboy riding a horse at a rodeo scene woven into it. It smelled like it had sat on a horse for a few months before landing on him. He glared at his watch, trying to determine what time it was by the light of the moon streaming in through curtains. It looked like it was just after three.

“Where are you going?” Castiel whispered.

The moon shone behind Castiel. It looked like the angel was illuminated. Dean couldn’t see his face clearly.

“Gotta piss,” Dean whispered quickly, standing up.

He was in the boxers he’d had when he came in, which were feeling a little nasty. Ash was lending him a cotton T-shirt that was about a size too small to be comfortable and had a picture of the Confederate flag waving in the wind on it, but it was better than nothing.

Cas was still in his trench coat and three piece suit like he was about to go to the office.

Cas stood directly in front of him, forcing Dean to side step to go toward the bathroom, which just so happened to be near the basement door. However, Dean found himself again face to face with the angel.

“You don’t look like you have to urinate,” Cas stated bluntly.

Even in the dull light, Dean could see Cas’s head tilted down, gazing at Dean’s lower abdomen.

“So you can read minds and read bladders, huh?” Dean said with a snort. He brushed his way past Cas and headed for the bathroom door.

“I can sense certain physiological urges, yes,” Cas replied.

Dean entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him. With Ellen’s lights out policy, it was dark as hell in there. He felt around for the toilet seat and waited until he felt the cool porcelain against his shins. He briefly wondered how Stevie Wonder did it before hearing the satisfying sound of liquid hitting the bowl.

Of course he didn’t really have to go, but he needed a reason to get near that basement door. He wasn’t sure how securely on the level Cas was at this stage, and the angel was willing to make a break for it with him despite Bobby’s fair warnings, but he had a feeling his old friend would be none-too-pleased with him sneaking booze in with the rest of their supplies.

He hated this. He felt like he was 16 again, waiting for Mom to pop out to run a few errands. He used to go straight for the Grey Goose in Dad’s liquor cabinet. He didn’t know why he liked vodka so much, though it probably had to do with the fact that it was clear and didn’t taste too alcoholic when he mixed it in with his plastic bottle of Coke. He used to chug about a third of a new bottle of Coke, then top it off with the stuff. He’d screw the cap back on, hold the bottle upside-down for a second, then put it right side up.

He’d then sprint from the liquor cabinet to his bedroom. Sometimes he’d catch Sam waiting in there, asking him if he wanted to play video games. Dean would bark at him to leave. He said he had homework. Sam would sulk his way out. One time, he even tried to appeal to Dean by asking him if he wanted to throw around a football. Sam hated football. Dean saw right through him and told him he was a stupid nerd who didn’t know his ass from the end zone.

Sam.

Somewhere in San Francisco. Probably cuddling up with Jessica right now at some refugee camp or whatever the government had set up for the survivors of Armageddon. All cozy and tight. Ignorant about what had happened to Mom. The world was chock full of biblical and supernatural things that wanted them dead and Sam was probably giving Jessica Eskimo kisses and talking about how they needed to fix the bathroom cabinet door when this was all over.

Dean exited the bathroom quietly and shuffled two steps toward the basement door. He opened it a tad and tried to peek in. Of course, it was even darker than the house.

Now, Dean figured he had two options. One was to stumble blindly down the stairs into the basement that was filled with sharp instruments of death. The other was standing in the study staring straight at him.

He made his eyes as wide as he could, trying to let in as much light as he possible. He’d heard that people with green eyes were the most sensitive to light. He hoped that also meant he had some sort of super human ability that allowed him to see better in the dark. But no matter how hard he tried, all he could see was Cas as a shadow coming slowly forward.

The angel stopped a few feet in front of him.

“Did you finish?” Cas asked as if he were trying to make conversation.

“No, I’m still whizzing as we speak,” Dean replied sarcastically. He glanced toward the partially open basement door.

Cas shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Dean heard the shuffling of his trench coat, like he was trying to take it off but wasn’t sure if that was allowed. It was hard to see his face, but by the way he was standing, Dean could tell he was uncomfortable.

“You alright there, buddy?” Dean said, though half his brain was still focused on getting down those stairs.

“Would it be more human if I lied at this point?” Cas asked.

Dean snickered. “Yeah, maybe. But you’re new to this, so shoot.” He leaned himself against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. His body was exhausted and that position just seemed natural. He knew it made him seem like a douchey guidance counselor trying to rap with the kids, but he figured Cas wouldn’t get the reference.

Cas retreated back into the study and sat himself down in the middle of the couch right on top of the horse blanket. He sighed. He was now facing the window and the moonlight reflected off his forehead. He glistened. He was sweating like a whore in church.

It was only April, but the temperature had been unusually high all day. Dean wasn’t sure what the climate was like in South Dakota, but he imagined Aprils weren’t supposed to have 80 degree heat. When he’d grumbled about it, Ash had laughed and asked him if he’d rather freeze to death or be burned alive. Dean took that as Ash’s way of saying things could be worse.

“You hot?” Dean tried. 

Cas turned his head and looked up at him. “Yes, I think so.”

He continued to stare helplessly at Dean before the other spoke. “You wanna try taking that damn coat off?”

Cas obliged, albeit slowly.

Dean had seen him out of his coat one time. Mom had accidentally spilled some weird brownish liquid on him. Mom wasn’t normally a klutz, but she seemed to kind of toss it on him. It covered his coat and face, but he didn’t seem to react. He had blinked and looked at Mom curiously. Dean laughed as she forced him out of the coat and tossed it into the laundry machine. She then gingerly wiped his face with a damp washcloth like he was a toddler who made a mess with his birthday cake.

Cas was out of the coat and was now working on the suit jacket. Dean watched him closely, half expecting the man to be completely made of fabric. But he wasn’t. The moonlight reflected off the tendon in the right side of his neck as he turned his head away from Dean. He was looking down at the left sleeve on the coat, tugging straight. Dean noted that the collar of his dress shirt was slightly wrinkled, like the shirt hadn’t been pressed before he put it on.

Before long, blue eyes looked up at Dean as if seeking approval.

“And the tie?” Dean whispered, then swallowed.

Cas yanked at the tie, which only seemed to make it tighter. It was like the man had never taken a tie off before. He got the thing on somehow, Dean assumed, but getting it off was a mystery. Except Dean had to remind himself that Castiel was only borrowing this body. For all he knew, the man could have come prepackaged. Cas could have picked up the Middle Manager Model.

“Let me,” Dean insisted, getting frustrated with how long it was taking Cas to get the damn thing off.

Cas didn’t say anything, but dropped his hands away from the knot. Dean crouched in front of him and with one smooth, quick movement, pulled the tie out of its knot. He slid it out from under the collar of the dress shirt and tossed it in the pile with the suit jacket. Dean stood. Cas never broke eye contact.

“Better?” Dean asked.

With a nod, Cas finally looked away and gazed at the pile of clothes.

“You know, you gotta start taking care of yourself,” Dean said. He couldn’t help but feel like he sounded just a little too much like Mom.

“I’ll pick it up,” Castiel said almost defiantly. “I am exponentially older than anyone you have ever known. I have knowledge of this world and others that could make your ears bleed.”

“Yet you couldn’t register that you were getting overheated there, could you?” Dean said teasingly as he plopped himself on the couch next to Cas. He leaned his back against the armrest and settled himself in a bit. He bent one leg up, his knee resting on the back cushion of the couch.

The angel eyed him. “Learning curve,” he mumbled.

Dean sighed. “You know, if you’re going to come with me to find Sam, you gotta pick this shit up fast. I can’t be babysitting you through life’s greatest milestones.”

Cas tilted his head up and gazed out the crack in the curtain. Dean looked at his profile.

“I am not a child,” Castiel said, not bothering to turn his head. “But I would appreciate some sound advice now and then.”

Dean shrugged. “Sure. You tell me how to gank demons and I’ll teach you how to ride a bike, no training wheels.”

“I’ll be experiencing the things that make you all human for the first time,” Cas said solemnly. “I already feel some things.”

“We got thirsty and hot covered,” Dean recalled. “What else we got? I ain’t helping you through gassy. You gotta soldier that one on your own.”

Cas turned to him again. He stared at Dean’s face. Great. Another staring contest. Dean would play. It was dark, and he could hardly see half his friend’s face, but it sure beat trying to fight off the urge to drink rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit.

Then Cas did something Dean was sure he’d never seen the angel do. He bit his bottom lip. It was just for a moment, but Dean distinctly saw his front teeth cover his lips before the skin bounced back into place. Dean couldn’t see his eyes, but he could see his head move down a bit. He was staring at Dean’s chest. Dean shifted in his seat, suddenly aware that his left foot was about two inches from Cas’s thigh.

“Your heart is beating,” Castiel murmured.

“Yeah, it tends to do that,” Dean replied in a low voice.

“I can hear it,” Cas said. “But not as an angel. It’s not clear. It’s muffled by your ribs and muscles and flesh.”

Dean shuddered at the word “flesh”. The English language didn’t have a more uncomfortable word.

“Dean,” Cas said, his head once again straight on with Dean’s. “I think… I think mine is beating as well. Can you hear it?”

They were both silent. They held their breaths. Dean heard nothing but an owl outside.

“It’s beating fast,” Cas said, as if that would convince Dean that he could hear it. “I’m in a rested state, by all accounts my heart rate should be slower than normal, yet… Why is it beating so fast?”

He sounded worried. Dean couldn’t blame him. The idea of suddenly going from immortal badass to floppy, mostly water human must have been frightening. And all those new feelings. Thirst was bad, but he couldn’t relate to discovering that for the first time.

He could relate to discovering other things for the first time though.

He tucked his leg in closer to this body. His foot inched away from Cas’s thigh. Cas stared down at his foot for a moment. The light may have been lacking, but Dean could distinctly see Cas’s eyes follow the shape of Dean’s foot up his leg and to his torso. They stopped briefly at Dean’s midsection, like they noticed something peculiar, before moving up to his chest. His eyes stayed there. Dean found himself involuntarily breathing harder.

“Dunno,” Dean answered almost inaudibly. He shifted again, making himself sit straight up.

There was suddenly the sound of glass crashing outside. Dean flinched as Cas shot to his feet. The curtain flapped in the breeze in front of them. Castiel rushed to it and opened it slightly, peering out. He then shot Dean a look.

Dean sprinted over and pulled back the curtain even more. His heart sank.

The moon hung overheard. It provided a nice, natural glow on the mob outside the Harvelle’s shack.


	29. Chapter 29

April 13, 2010 – Lawrence, KS

Dean pawed his cell phone like it was a lucky rabbit’s foot. He didn’t know why he was on edge. Sitting on a metal folding chair in the basement of a church wasn’t helping his nerves.

“My name is Helen and I’m an alcoholic,” a woman said blandly, like she was reading lines from a script. She was overweight, her cat sweatshirt stretched over her saggy chest and stomach. She looked to be in her late 50s with a distinct yellowish tint to her skin. Dean figured she was the type to come in and out of AA like it was a social club people could pop into when they felt like it. She was a regular.

“Hi Helen,” the group said joylessly in unison.

“It’s been fourteen days since my last drink,” Helen said, looking at the back wall. “It’s been tough. My son took all the booze out of the house, thank god. But I dunno what I’d do if you put a bottle in front of me right now.”

The room was silent. The facilitator smiled encouragingly at her. The chairs were arranged in a circle, like “Pop Goes the Weasel” was about to play and they’d all be doing musical chairs.

Dean leaned back on the hard metal of the chair uncomfortably. He was a fairly tall man, but not monstrously so like his brother. He always wondered why in this day and age they couldn’t invent a folding chair that was suitable for a man who was over six feet tall.

“Good, Helen,” the facilitator said. “I’m glad you could admit that. See, everyone, we’re all helpless when there’s alcohol in the room. We can’t resist it. We’re weak. We have to admit it to ourselves.”

A few in the group nodded. Dean folded his arms over his chest and caught the glance of a woman in her thirties. She had faded blonde highlights in her kinky hair. Freckles dotted her skin. She smiled at him, a thirsty look in her eyes. Dean smiled back momentarily, but quickly turned his gaze to the facilitator.

He recognized that look. A few years ago, he associated alcohol with sex. He’d drink and hook up. He’d hook up and drink. If he couldn’t get enough of one, he’d overindulge in the other. But for him now alcohol meant something different.

It was numbing.

“I believe we have a new member today,” the facilitator said, turning her attention to Dean.

Dean sat up slightly and waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, naw. I’m good. I’m just observing.”

“It’s OK,” Helen said as she sat down. “I was new once. We all were.”

All eyes in the room were on him. Dean noted the characters around him. A couple dead beat dads. He knew something about that. A handful of middle age women. Suburban moms with DUIs, most likely. An older man with what looked like a fake leg. War vet. Korea probably. A kid who looked like he was just barely 21 slumped next to the facilitator. Dean couldn’t figure him out.

“I’m D-“ he started as he stood. He then cleared his throat. “I’m John. I guess I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi John,” the group greeted him.

“It’s been, uh…” He searched his memory. “’Bout sixteen hours since my last drink.”

He waited for any signs of disapproval. There were none.

“I uh…,” he continued, though he wasn’t sure where he was going to go from there. He’d already started lying. Might as well continue it. “I’m here because of my sons. Two sons. They’re young. Um, one’s four, other’s about six months.”

The facilitator narrowed her eyes at him, then smiled.

“I guess one day I woke up and looked at myself in the mirror and thought this can’t be all there is,” Dean said, looking down at his shoes. “There’s gotta be more than just trying to see the bottom of a bottle.”

“There is more,” the facilitator agreed. “There’s God.” She seemed to spit the last part.

Dean shot her a confused look.

“It doesn’t have to be the Judeo-Christian god, of course,” she said quickly. “It can be whoever you see as a higher power. Humans – We humans are powerless on our own. We’re nothing but the scum of the earth. We are not free to choose our own path.”

“What?” Dean snapped. “Wait a sec. I’m here to stop drinking, not surrender free will.”

She laughed. “Free will is a myth, _John_.” She said the name like she’d never heard it before.

“I’m not here to get all philosophical,” Dean said, turning toward the chair behind him and grabbing his jacket. “Fuck this shit. Sorry, everyone. You’re all getting brainwashed here.”

He tried to leave the circle, but the facilitator stood and blocked him. 

“Good luck on the outside, John,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll fair just fine on your own.” Her smirk reminded him of a cobra.

“Yeah, well, good luck tending to the flock,” Dean spat and headed for the door.

The church basement door slammed behind him. He went for his pickup, pulling his keys out of his jacket pocket.

Dean checked his watch. It was 6:30. He missed happy hour at Ted’s Grill, but it was Two-Dollar Tuesdays at The Pit. Two bucks for beer. The Pit didn’t have the best food, but cheap beer would fill him up just as well.

He started the car and drove.

******

April 24, 2010 – Los Angeles, CA

The cuckoo clock went off. The tiny little bird and dancing German people spun around eight times then retired to their safe little wooden house. Chuck vaguely registered the noise and reminded himself that it was a Saturday. He had no concept of weekends since he became a full-time writer and celebrity extraordinaire. There was no point. Every night might as well be Friday night at the Shurley house. And because he had no set schedule, eight on a Saturday morning was just too damn early to be awake.

His head pounded. He couldn’t remember what he did last night, but the headache felt vaguely like the one he had after the first and only time he tried spice. It had been in Tokyo when he was promoting the first _Supernatural_ movie. Apparently, it was extremely hard to get quality weed in the country, so he had to settle with the _Breaking Bad_ equivalent. A club owner had ushered him and the Japanese model he was with into a private room decorated with tacky white leather couches and plastic plants. The guy looked young, with traditional Japanese style tattoos on his left arm. He handed Chuck a pipe. That was the last thing Chuck remembered clearly before waking up next to the girl with a pounding headache.

Chuck tried to recall if that was what he’d done last night. He wasn’t too sure. He was thirsty. His left shoulder was searing with pain like he had a massive sunburn. He was shaking. Not on his own. Someone was shaking him. Someone’s hands were on his right shoulder shaking him violently.

“WAKE UP!” a voice screamed.

Chuck opened his eyes and saw a teenage boy standing over him. Memories started flooding back.

“Oh shit,” Chuck mumbled and shoved his face in the pillow. “No no no no. It was a dream. You’re not here. We’re not in hell.”

“You’re right on one point, wrong on two,” Kevin said flatly. “Care to guess which one is right?”

Chuck turned his head and inhaled. The first thing he registered was that the air smelled quite a bit fresher than before, and completely familiar. He smelled that massive hand-dipped vanilla candle he lit to put ladies in the mood. Not that he needed it to get them going. His bank account was enough for that.

He shot straight up in bed and glanced around him. It was his bedroom. His beautiful, beautiful bedroom with his bed and his sheets and his laptop sitting idle on the table a few feet away. Even the cuckoo clock was back in working order. Everything was just as it always was, save for the fact that there was some strange kid he met in hell standing over his bed with his arms crossed.

“Did we make it out?” Chuck asked hesitantly.

“Does this look like hell?” Kevin replied with adolescent snark. “I’m assuming by the pictures in the hallway that this is your humble abode.”

Chuck got out of bed. He was back in his sweats from the day before. At least this time he teleported, he didn’t end up naked.

“Everything looks the same,” he remarked, scanning the room. He entered the hallway and went straight for the picture of him with Stephen King. It was still there, intact, his own smug face smiling back at him. He wondered if Steve had made a deal with a demon too.

He then headed for his laptop and opened it up. It was still on, though he distinctly remembered shutting it down the last time he’d used it some days ago after staring at it blankly for hours.

“Why’s this on?” he asked, panicking slightly.

Kevin stood by the table. “I turned it on. I tried to log in, but I couldn’t figure out your password. I thought it would be something easy like ‘chuckistheman’, all lowercase letters, but I guess I underestimated you.”

Chuck hovered his body over the laptop, blocking the keyboard from Kevin’s view with his back. He typed in “password” and hit enter.

“Can I… Can I use Skype or something?” Kevin asked hesitantly. “I tried all the phones in your house, but the lines are dead. Also, your door is locked from the outside. I’d break a window to get out, but I figured I would wait until you got up before doing that.”

Chuck looked up at him. In Hell’s Study, Kevin had been confident, and seemed wise beyond his years. Now looking at him in the natural morning light, Chuck could see his age. He was just a boy. A prophet in training, sure, but a boy who had been shoved down in some deep yet plush pit of hell against his will, isolated from the world above. He had said he had no idea how long he’d been down there. His family probably thought he was dead.

“Sure,” Chuck said as he opened Skype. The window popped up to reveal that none of Chuck’s contacts were online. That was strange. The people in London and New York should have been on at this hour, even on a Saturday. He usually used Skype for business meetings with the publishing houses around the world that released his books. He would really just sit on those as a formality. The big wigs would rattle on about margins and dividends and shit. All Chuck really cared about was how big his check was going to be.

Chuck moved out of the way and let Kevin sit down at the desk. The boy trembled a bit as he typed in a phone number and hit “Call”. The laptop emitted that artificial ringing sound.

“You have reached the Tran residence,” a woman’s chipper voice said after a while. Kevin shot forward at the sound of it. “Please leave your name and number and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can. Have a peachy day!”

“ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_ ,” Kevin nearly shouted into the little hole in the computer with the microphone symbol.

Chuck took a step back, scared by Kevin’s sudden fervor. The boy continued to go on like that for a few seconds before reaching what sounded like “adios”.

“Mom!” Kevin shouted in English. “Get someplace safe! Hide! I will find you!” Kevin then slammed his finger down on the mouse and ended the call.

“You speak Spanish?” Chuck asked.

Kevin glared up at him like he was trying to make Chuck’s head explode. “That was Latin, noob. I was performing an exorcism.”

Chuck blinked. “I’ve heard of teenagers hating their parents, but did you really need to exorcise your own mother?”

With an eye roll and a sigh, Kevin responded, “Yeah, she was kind of possessed by a demon for years. I’m not exactly sure when it started, but the demons were keeping tabs on me for a while, I guess through her. Those assholes were using my mom like a… like a piece of meat.” He was shaking so badly he was rattling the mouse in his hand.

Chuck mustered a sympathetic expression. He’d realized he was a selfish asshole years ago when his own family cut him off. Or more like, he basically cut them off. When his mom asked to borrow a couple thousand dollars to fix the roof of their house, he’d grumbled something about not being a charity. He sent her a check anyway as he genuinely felt terrible about what he’d said. A few weeks later, the check came back with the word “VOID” written across it. In the memo section, his mom’s handwriting read “You are not a charity.” He hadn’t really spoken to her since.

Kevin’s eyes suddenly went wide. He was staring at the screen like he’d just seen a ghost.

“What?” Chuck asked, worried.

“There’s no Wi-Fi connection,” Kevin said, pointing at the bottom right hand corner of the screen.

Chuck shrugged. “Hm, guess I’ll have to call the internet company. Did you want to look up something?”

Kevin tensed. “That’s not the point! How are we able to connect to Skype and make phone calls?”

While Chuck wasn’t the most computer savvy person in the world, he did know it took an internet connection to make the Skype-y program connect to the nice people who gave him money.

“No internet, no working phones, doors locked from the outside,” Kevin said. “Is this some kind of trick? Are we still in hell?”

“No, Kevin, luckily you’re not,” a woman’s voice said from somewhere in the room.

Chuck jumped, then frantically looked around for the source of it. When he couldn’t find anything, he looked back at Kevin, who was staring angrily at the laptop screen. Chuck glanced over his shoulder and saw a blonde woman’s face. The video quality was clear and the audio was almost too crisp.

“Hello, Chuck,” Lucifer said. “I’d like to thank you for praying to me. It really saved me a ton of time finding the two of you.”

“Where’s my mother?” Kevin demanded. “Who are you?”

“What’s the line from your book, Chuck?” Lucifer asked curiously. “Oh right. I’m the only who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”

Chuck put his hands to his face. “Kevin, meet Lucifer.”

The boy shot to his feet and threw himself a few paces back.

“Now, now,” Lucifer said gently. “There’s no need for alarm. I’m not going to kill you. I’ve changed my mind about a few things. One of the perks of being a fallen angel is that I’m not cemented in my ways, unlike my brothers and sisters.”

Lucifer smiled warmly at them. Mary Winchester really was a beautiful woman, but the fact that her eyes weren’t smiling with her mouth made Chuck want to turn tail and run.

“Where’s my mom?” Kevin tried again. “Where’s Linda Tran?”

Lucifer sighed. “I think it’s sweet that you’re so concerned about your mother. I admire children who respect and care deeply for their parents. You, Kevin, truly are a more worthy prophet than Chuck here. Perhaps I should destroy him and allow you to ascend to your proper place among those destined for greatness.”

“No!” Chuck yelled, cowering behind the bed.

He heard a chuckle. “Just a little joke, Chuck! Young prophets always start out weak. It takes years before they realize their full potential. Believe it or not, you’re in your prime. It would take Kevin at least a decade to catch up to your current level. I’ve waited tens of thousands of years for my reign on earth, and I simply cannot wait any longer. Call me impatient, but that’s just how I feel.”

“Potential for what?” Kevin asked defiantly. He was standing as straight as he could, shoulders back like he was ready to punch the laptop screen.

“I need to ask the two of you a big favor,” Lucifer said. “Remember that tablet I yanked away from you, Chuck? Well, despite my nearly infinite knowledge of all languages alive and dead, I cannot read it.”

“Tablet?” Kevin asked.

There was a sudden clunking sound. Chuck lifted his head to peek over the mattress and saw the tablet settling on the table next to the laptop. He stood then walked back over toward Kevin.

“Chuck, I need you to translate this tablet, seeing as you’re the only one who can read it,” Satan said. “Do you think you can do that for me?”

Chuck was ready to say yes, anything to avoid getting killed, but Kevin interrupted with a, “Why?”

Lucifer grinned. “I like that you question authority, Kevin. You know, you’re really turning out to be my favorite human. I mean, the bar is extremely low on that one, but you’re alright.” She cleared her throat. “Now, this tablet has some very important information in it. I hear it’s like a safety valve. If a pipe breaks, this tablet has the instructions on what to turn to prevent a flood. Oh, I don’t mean a literal flood. We want literal floods. In fact, I just started one in Jakarta. It should be spectacular. No, by flood, I mean of course if some pesky lower life forms like humans or demons try to undo all my hard work. Chiefly, I’m thinking of a certain King of the Crossroads getting in my way.”

“Crowley?” Chuck finally found the courage to speak. “Why don’t you just kill him?” Lucifer was bad, but from Chuck’s experience, his former literary agent wasn’t exactly on the level.

Lucifer’s face suddenly grew serious. “I don’t have to explain myself on that point. Just worry about what I’ll do to you if you don’t help me translate the tablet.”

Kevin and Chuck both took a step back.

“Why do you need both of us?” Kevin asked. “I mean, I don’t have any prophet powers or whatever. You don’t need me.” He shot a look to Chuck as if to say, “Sorry for throwing you under the bus.”

“Well, here’s the thing about this particular tablet,” Lucifer said as if she were explaining how to make the proper soufflé. “It’s not exactly user-friendly. Chuck, you may recall those intense headaches as you tried to read it last time?”

He nodded, the memory of the pain coming back to him.

“That’s not just a physiological pain,” Lucifer went on. “That’s your soul begging your brain to turn away, to stop reading the tablet. What you’re reading in the tablet is God’s Word, plain and bold on the stone in front of you. Your puny little human souls can’t handle a single glimpse of His Glory, nor can you handle a millisecond of His Voice. His Word is a slightly watered down version of all that, but it’s still the same idea. Father made it so your soul would disintegrate with prolonged exposure to His Word as a sort of safety net. One human being with all the knowledge the Lord has in His vast, infinite mind would destroy not only himself, not only humanity, but this glorious planet He created.”

Lucifer smiled affectionately. “The safety net makes it so a prophet who reads the tablet for long enough will perish. Chuck, you will not just die. Your soul will deteriorate into nothing. You will neither go to heaven nor hell. It will be as if you never existed. I’m sorry. I wish there was some other way.” Lucifer almost seemed sympathetic.

“From that point, though Kevin will have a bit of a learning curve, he will take over,” the devil stated. “I will send the next prophet in line from that point once Kevin’s soul suffers the same fate.”

Neither Chuck nor Kevin moved. They simply stared at the screen in front of them.

Eventually, Kevin whispered, “And what happens if we don’t translate the tablet for you?”

Lucifer’s expression turned dark. Her face then disappeared and suddenly on the screen there was a middle age woman with a gag in her mouth. Blood dripped from her hair line. All they could see was her face.

“Mom!” Kevin cried, leaping toward the screen.

A hand reached over and removed the gag. “Kevin? Oh god, Kevin! Is it really you? My baby! My baby boy!”

The woman then jerked forward and let out a blood-curdling scream.

“Stop!” Kevin begged. “Leave her alone! I’ll do it! We’ll do it!” He shot a look at Chuck.

Chuck was selfish. He only thought of himself for years. He didn’t know this woman. He barely knew Kevin.

But Chuck wasn’t a bad person. No, he wasn’t. He knew it. Deep down. He wasn’t bad. He couldn’t be.

“We’ll do it!” Chuck echoed. “We’ll translate your damn tablet, Satan.”

The screen went back to Lucifer’s smiling face. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. Linda Tran will stay in my care, unharmed for now. I’ll treat her well. But if I sense one ounce of defiance in either of you, well, hell isn’t the worst place a soul can end up.”

The screen went dark. The laptop fan hissed then smoke rose from the keyboard.

The two prophets stared at the tablet. Kevin extended his hand toward the table.

“After you,” he said.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter truly has explicit violence in it, so if you have a vivid imagination and a weak stomach, proceed with caution.

April 13, 2010 – New Haven, CT

Meg stared down at her nails. They were manicured quite nicely, which she liked. A bit longer than how she normally kept them, but they’d have to do for now. She didn’t exactly have a ton of time to be lazing around the nail salon these days.

She’d picked the body of an AA group facilitator. She liked those people. They always squawked on about how selfless and noble they were, aiding the downtrodden in getting out of whatever habit they were naturally drawn toward. Meg saw no reason to stop drinking or doing drugs or fucking whatever shook its ass walking down the street if people liked it. If it made them happy, then more power to them. It was the people who tried to change the various -holics who were the problem. They tortured other human beings by denying them the drink or the hit or the dick. They then had the audacity to bask in their own self-satisfaction. They actually felt good about preventing people from enjoying themselves.

She wondered if her being a demon who physically tortured souls in hell was worse. In the end, she always settled on them being the bad guys.

The parking lot around her had a few random luxury cars in it. She picked the most expensive looking one: a Mercedes-Benz E350 Sedan in black. Probably owned by some chief of medicine dipshit with more money than he knew what to do with.

Meg loved black cars though. She was a sucker for the sleek paint, the heat reflecting off of it in the sun on a hot August day. It reminded her of home.

She sat on the hood. The zipper over her left back pocket found its way on to the paint. Sliding slowly across the hood, the zipper made a horrendous scratching sound against the paint. She stood and whipped around to admire her handiwork. A nice, white, five-inch long mark was left in her wake.

“Oops,” she said with a smirk.

She left a nice handprint smudge next to it just for good measure then sighed. This was what she was reduced to. The apocalypse was nigh and she was sitting in a hospital parking lot causing mischief that would make Denis the Menace balk.

But she had to lay low. While the lower level demons were out prematurely celebrating like overly confident soccer hooligans, bathing in the blood of the innocent and setting fire to anything that wasn’t water, she was out doing the heavy lifting. The seals had been broken, thanks to her and the other members of the elite team of demons she ran with. She’d baited the Chosen One – a name that suited the person fine, but was entirely cliché – into flaying Lilith at the last site. It had been a glorious display of blood and gore. Lilith had laughed as she bled out. The Chosen One had fled the scene like a coward.

Meg didn’t understand it. How could a weak, doughy meat sack with a pea-brain not want to play host to the most magnificent being that had ever existed? She would take her beaten up soul from storage and re-sell it just for one hour of Lucifer wearing her like a cashmere sweater. But of course, destiny had ordained another for that honor.

Her job, as Lucifer’s most loyal, was to wait for her master to walk upon this earth in flesh and blood and bones.

She just wished the vessel would hurry the fuck up and say yes.

She’d been watching Mary Winchester since the human was born. Hunters pissed Meg off as they were, but when she saw Mary dive into domestic wife-and-mother bliss, she wanted to gag. At least hunters got one thing right. Killing was fun. Mary Mother of the Burgeoning Alcoholic and Little Sissy Pants spent her days scrubbing toilets in yellow, rubber gloves, packing brown bag lunches, and resenting her husband. The Real Housewives of Lawrence, Kansas. Boring. As. Shit. Not even Bravo would pick that one up.

She spotted a figure coming toward her. The face wasn’t familiar, but she recognized the scent.

“What took you so long?” she called as she leaned back against the Benz again.

It was a woman with long brown hair wearing a rather expensive pantsuit. Her face was pretty, with dark eyes and a wide mouth. She was too young to be a doctor or a medical malpractice lawyer. Meg smirked when she realized the woman was a pharmaceuticals rep. Those people made the best meatsuits. Attractive and already slightly evil.

“Hey, it’s been a few decades,” the other woman remarked. “I feel like I have the right to be choosey. This one waltzed in about 10 minutes ago and I just couldn’t resist.”

Meg narrowed her eyes. “Yeah well, you sure picked a pretty one. I’m sure he’ll love it.” She glared at her up and down. “Shall we?”

“The Benz?” the woman asked.

“Naw,” Meg replied. “This one’s scratched.” She glanced around the parking lot.

“We could just snap our fingers and get ourselves there that way,” the other said.

Meg smiled. “Where’s the fun in that? How about this Audi?” Her fingers grazed the surface of the car like she was caressing fine silk.

“I’m not picky,” the woman said with a shrug. “Well, picky with meatsuits, yeah, but these things? Modern cars don’t get my engine going. Pardon my pun.”

Glaring, Meg nearly hissed, “You’ve been in hell too long.” She composed herself. “Come on. We got ten days until it all goes down and we don’t have anything better to do. Could be fun to pop in on the older one later tonight though. But hey, we might as well have a little road trip before the price of gas goes up to a billion dollars and a roll of toilet paper a gallon.”

The other woman sighed then smiled. “Alright. I haven’t seen America since 1875 anyway. I heard there’s something called French fries that’re pretty famous around here.”

Meg snapped her fingers and the Audi unlocked. She opened the driver’s side door and hopped in, pawing the steering wheel and smiling to herself.

“You want French fries? Sure,” she said. “We’ll get you French fries.”

The other woman got in the passenger’s side door. The door closed on its own.

Meg started driving.

******

April 25, 2010 – San Francisco, CA

Sam stomped around outside the police station, pushing the orange Home Depot shopping cart in front of him. He was trying to keep his cool but his body was betraying him. It was overcast, rain clouds looming over him like some sort of sign from the heavens. The house just down the street was empty, much like all the other houses on the block. He spent the afternoon peeking in the windows, looking for any signs of life. There was, of course, none.

But Sam was almost glad. He was more upset than he’d been since this all started. Even killing Jessica hadn’t made him feel this way. It wasn’t sorrow or disgust with himself. It was anger.

Anger wasn’t an emotion Sam Winchester did well. Dad and Dean were the experts in that. The Packers lost a playoff game and Dad threw the remote control across the room. Sam spilled orange juice on Dean’s brand new Walkman and he found himself getting chased around the yard by his brother wielding a plastic Wiffle ball bat.

No, Sam didn’t get angry. It wasn’t in his nature. He’d shove the anger down deep into a safe that even he didn’t know the combination for. 

He was the nice guy. He was the level-headed one. He was the person you turned to when the shit hit the fan.

Well, the shit did hit the fan, and hard. And now it was worse.

He and Ruby had just waited four hours in front of the radio. Dean never made contact. Ruby rechecked the diesel tank in the basement that was powering the backup generator. Her original estimation of a couple weeks had been an overstatement. Sam had found several tanks of diesel at the Home Depot, but, with the way they were using the lights, she estimated they had about two days of power on each tank. The radio was a problem too. Even though the radio didn’t take up all that much electricity, leaving it on all day was a drain. They’d yet to make contact with any other person. And with Dean silent, there was no point in listening to static for hours on end.

Sam left the cart in the driveway and walked up to the front door. He took a rock from the garden and used it to smash through the window on the side. With a gloved hand, he reached in and unlocked the door. He was breaking and entering, but he didn’t care. They needed to start hoarding food and fresh water. There were plenty of houses on this street, and any red-blooded America had at least a few cans of baked beans or tuna or creamed corn in their pantries. But that supply would eventually run out.

Ruby ate some cured ham and a box of Triscuits earlier that day. She gave Sam about ten crackers and several slices of ham. Sam found himself barely choking that down. He had no appetite. But that was normal for him. He’d be faced with a stressful or emotional situation and any sensation of hunger would dissipate. He usually felt weak, but his brain told him now was not the time to eat. Now was the time to work. To finish that report. To pay those student loan bills. To go to Dad’s funeral.

To be angry at Dean.

To be angry because Dean was probably dead.

The house was decorated like some sort of Southwestern art exhibit. There was faux-stucco on the interior walls with pictures of horses and Native Americans wrapped in blankets hanging from them. Sam headed for the kitchen. It was all white and turquoise tile. The pantry was full of bags of quinoa and organic cereal. He grabbed both and shoved them in the backpack. He’d load the backpack then transfer the items to the shopping cart waiting outside.

When he collected all the viable food items and bottles of water, he surveyed the house one last time, looking for first aid supplies. He went down a long hall. It was a ranch house, bigger than Ruby’s sister’s house, but probably about the same age. The walls in the hallway were lined with pictures of various stages of a boy’s life. A picture of an infant in the arms of two women. Next the boy standing by a tricycle, obviously unsteady. The last picture was of the boy in front of a blue sky background, smiling wide, showing off the gap where his two front teeth were missing.

He approached a door and inhaled. He hunched over and nearly vomited.

There was a sickening smell, like rotten meat in the hot sun. Something on the other side of the door reeked, and Sam knew he should just turn around and cart the supplies back to the police station. But he couldn’t help himself. He opened the door.

The smell became overwhelming. Sam threw up the few bites of crackers and water he’d had that morning. He didn’t bother wiping his mouth. He just stared at the sight in front of him.

A few flies swarmed the bed. The tan sheets were stained brownish red, seemingly soaked through. Atop the mattress were the bodies of two women, their hands linked. Their mouths had a yellowish substance around them.  One woman’s eyes were open. The other’s were closed.

Sam spotted a piece of paper with something handwritten on it sitting on the bedside table. He cautiously approached the bed, covering his mouth with his right sleeve, trying not to inhale again. He snatched the note.

_Dear God, you took our Marcus to Heaven._

_Please let us join him._

_Lina and Cynthia_

Sam stared down at the women’s bodies. The one with her eyes closed looked like she was sleeping, save for the yellow around her mouth. Poison, Sam figured. They had no visible wounds on them. The zombie apocalypse had started around them, they witnessed the carnage. Marcus, their son, the boy in the pictures, was killed. Or turned. They decided they couldn’t live in this world.

Sam glared at the stain on the sheets. The sheets were slightly jumbled, like they’d been tossing and turning at night. The poison had probably ravaged their insides. They were in immense pain as it happened. Their last conscious movements alive were to grab each other’s hands.

The note found its way back to the bedside table. Sam turned and exited the room, closing the door behind him. Marcus was staring down at him from the last photograph, the closest one to the bedroom. He had big, brown eyes, and a grin that was unnaturally large. Kids always took pictures like that. They wanted to show as many teeth as they could, and if they had just lost some teeth, that was even better.

Sam walked back toward the entrance of the hall, but stopped at the picture of the two women with the infant.

They were all dead now. All three of them. Marcus, Lina, and Cynthia. A family. Sam didn’t know them. In fact, he was stealing from them. He was stealing from dead people.

Sam left the house and pushed the shopping cart toward the police station. He’d made a pretty good haul at that house. He grabbed a pot and figured he could build a fire, fill the pot with water, and they could boil the quinoa. Quinoa was healthy and filling.

The police station was in his sights, but there was something distinctly different. Namely, the four figures emerging from the back of it. They stopped in their tracks and stared blankly at Sam.

He quickly eyed the makeshift front door. It was still intact. Ruby was still safe, protected inside. He swung his backpack to his front and pulled out the knife he’d used before.

“Hey!” Sam barked, readying his knife. “Step away from the building!”

The zombies swayed a bit, but didn’t move. One of them seemed to glance at the others.

“I said, get out of here!” Sam screamed, letting go of the shopping cart and taking a few steps toward them.

The one closest to him hobbled forward, its hands up like it was reaching for him. It looked like it had been a middle age man before it turned. It was wearing a short sleeve dress shirt and khaki slacks. It moaned and coughed before breaking into a sprint.

Sam was ready. When it was about ten feet from him, he lunged forward and with all his might stabbed it straight through the throat. It gurgled a bit as the knife slid out, then collapsed to the grass below it. Two of the others froze. One rushed toward him much like the first, and again, much like the first, Sam stabbed him in the throat. Except this one had more spectacular blood splatter as Sam realized he must have hit an artery.

The blood shot straight into his mouth. He swallowed, the taste of iron hitting his tongue. He felt his saliva glands ooze.

The blood tasted good.

He heard a scream. Ruby appeared from behind the building holding her knife in both hands. The other two zombies turned their focus to her. She raised her knife a bit, stumbled as she backed away. She fell to the ground.

Sam raced up to the building and sent his knife into the back of one of the zombies’ heads. It fell to the ground, knife still sticking out. There was no time to grab it. The last one was reaching for Ruby as she helplessly crawled on her hands crab-style, trying to get away.

Sam grabbed the zombie by the collar. It was wearing a brown McDonald’s uniform. Amongst the smell of body odor and blood, Sam inhaled that unmistakable deep fried scent. He felt what little was left in his stomach churn and head toward his esophagus. 

The zombie fell backwards toward Sam. It hit the ground hard and Sam was on top of it. He slammed his knee down on its neck and jaw. He heard a crack. Its arms flailed up at him. He’d cracked the jaw, but not the neck. He pressed down harder, putting 220-pounds of weight on it. It dug its nails into his thigh and looked up at him, eyes blood shot. There was suddenly an immense pain in Sam’s groin and he keeled over. It had punched him in the testicles. He rolled over to his side and groaned. He saw stars.

“Sam!” Ruby cried from the ground, though she didn’t move.

The zombie tried to right itself, coughing and spurting blood as it crawled away from Sam.

But Sam was too quick. Though he could barely inhale, Sam reached out and grabbed the zombie’s ankle, dragging it back toward him. It kicked at him, coughing more loudly and desperately, until Sam managed to hurl his body on top of it. The first thing he went for was the loose jaw. It certainly wasn’t the easiest thing to go for, but he did anyway. He grabbed it with both his hands and yanked with all his might.

The thing gave a choking scream as its flesh ripped. Its arms and legs went wild, trying to push Sam off.

Sam dropped the jaw and let both his hands squeeze the thing’s neck. It snapped much easier than he expected. He licked his lips and tasted the blood around his mouth.

It was warm.

Ruby brought herself to her feet. She looked down at Sam with a neutral expression.

“Go clean yourself up inside,” she said plainly. “I’ll bring the supplies in.” She headed toward the shopping cart.

Sam went to the back of the building and used his key to open the door. He was steady.

He headed down the short hallway back to the main room of the police station. The distinct hiss of the radio echoed throughout the room. It was dark save for the small red and green lights from the radio. Ruby must have turned the radio on just to make sure no one was trying to contact them.

Sam took a towel they’d found during another supply run and wiped off his face. He stared down at the fresh blood stained on it. It looked vaguely like his face, like some kind of Shroud of Turin. A face, but not quite human. Not quite his own.

“Sammy?” he heard a voice coming from the radio.

He walked toward it, wiping off his bloody hands. He picked up the receiver and pressed the button on the side.

“Dean?” Sam tried. He wasn’t angry anymore.

“Did you get them?” Dean asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said as he swallowed, still tasting the blood.

“All of them?” Dean questioned. He sounded distant, deeper. He sounded like Dean, but he didn’t sound like Dean.

“I killed all of them,” Sam admitted with a sigh.

“That’s good, Sammy,” Dean said. “That’s real good. Now go eat, little brother.”

Sam stared down at the towel in his hands. He was hungry.


	31. Chapter 31

April 13, 2010 – Cozard, NE

“Four o’clock!” Ellen shouted as the demon headed for her daughter.

Jo whipped around and jammed the blade into its left shoulder. It reeled back and stumbled, screaming as smoke rose from the wound.

“ _Exorcizamus te, omnis…_ ”Ellen chanted automatically.

The demon craned its head up and thick, black smoke shot from its mouth. The human body left behind fell to the ground like a rag doll.

“Sonnavabitch smoked out!” Jo said as she kicked one of the fallen barstools out of her way.

“Watch it!” Ellen said, pointing a finger at her daughter. Jo needed to control her temper.

She went to the now unpossessed body’s side and kneeled down. She put her ear up to the man’s face to check to see if he was breathing. She then picked up his wrist gently in her left hand, and with her right hand, checked for a pulse. No breathing. No pulse. The man was also cooling rapidly. He’d been dead a long time, she reckoned.

“He gone?” Ash said, rising from behind the bar.

“Yup,” Ellen answered, not sure if he meant the demon or the meatsuit it was riding. “Let’s get this place cleaned up.”

“It could have found a new host,” Jo stated, yanking the knife from the corpse’s shoulder. “I’ll go look around.”

“No, you won’t,” Ellen said strictly, picking up the stool Jo had kicked. “You’ll stay right here and clean up.”

Jo shoved the knife into its holster attached to her belt. The leather of the holster had been especially blessed by an old priest and a young priest so that each time she put it back in, the knife itself got reblessed. It wasn’t exactly a demon killer, but it sure caused them a world of pain.

“There ain’t many people around the Roadhouse these days with all the recent attacks,” Jo pressed on. “It couldn’t have many choices around here. I know I’ll find it if-“

“Joanna Beth,” Ellen said with a sigh. “You listen to me for one time in your life. I don’t want you wandering around the Lincoln Highway trying to stab innocent folk. The demon got away. There’ll be plenty of more for you soon enough.”

Jo’s lower lip tightened so much, it nearly disappeared. Ellen knew that look well. The first time she saw it was when Jo was two. The girl had taken all the pots and pans out of the kitchen cabinet at the bar and discovered that a wooden spoon on stainless steel made a brutal sound. Ellen had scolded her something fierce for making a racket that could wake the dead, but Bill said the girl was naturally curious. It wasn’t right to stifle her curiosity like that.

Bill had always been soft on Jo. She really was daddy’s little girl. Whenever Bill came back from a hunt, tired and dirty, Jo would run up to him and jump into his arms. The weary look in Bill’s eyes would immediately disappear and he’d look at her like there were no monsters or demons out there to viciously murder them all. Even as Jo got older, and her tongue got more and more venomous as she raged into teenhood, Bill still wanted nothing but to come home to his daughter.

Of course, one night, Bill didn’t come home.

Ellen wasn’t surprised when it happened. She suspected Jo wasn’t either. It was the hunter’s lifestyle. When she got the call, she only needed to give her daughter a single look before the girl stood up from the social studies homework she was doing on the old bar top and went into the backroom, silent.

“You get the feet, I’ll get the shoulders,” Ellen said, motioning toward the corpse on the floor.

Jo grumbled as if Ellen had asked her to take the trash out in the rain. Well, that was what they were doing, more or less.

They had a special back room with all their hunting supplies. Guns, knives, swords, mystical wooden sticks, holy water, silver bullets, machetes, an ancient sword owned by William Wallis. While Bobby Singer could boast a store of knowledge in his house, the Roadhouse had an armory that would make any hunter envious.

The back also had a large, industrial-sized tub that they often had to fill with lye.

Ellen handed a package with the biohazard symbol on it. They had a contact in the local police department who supplied them with light-weight hazmat suits just for these special occasions.

Jo snatched the package from Ellen’s hand. “What’s the point anyway?” she grumbled.

Ellen ripped open a second package and shook out her own suit. “Don’t think our customers will appreciate a rotting corpse with the Tuesday special.”

“I mean,” Jo said with a sigh. “Why don’t we just bury this one? It’ll take less time. And the cops’ll never find it in ten days’ time anyway.”

Ellen glared at Jo. Ten days. That’s all it was at this point. Ten days until the end of humanity at the top of food chain. Ten days until murdering your fellow human beings over antibiotics was going to be the norm. Ten days until Lucifer would walk the earth.

Ellen hadn’t believed Bobby at first. When Bobby called her up two years ago out of the blue to tell her an angel had come to him in ’06, she figured the old coot had finally lost it. Too many years in the business and even the toughest minds could lose it. But when she drove up to Sioux Falls and was met by a man in a trench coat with black wings sprouting from his back, rattling off descriptions of the upcoming apocalypse, she had to believe.

She and Bobby worked hard preparing for it. Bobby absorbed everything he could from the lore while Ellen collected weapons like they were baseball cards. She distributed as many as she could to hunters she knew and trusted. Gordon, Caleb, Shawn. She sent out special weapons to Rufus since he’d be at ground zero. Sacred oil that could trap an angel once set on fire. Rufus was already a hot head, so it seemed fit to give him that as his primary defense against Lucifer.

Ellen also read up on more practical things. General survival tactics. How to conserve water and fuel. How to ration. How to keep peace in a world with no laws. Some survivalists she visited told her the government was going to shut down once Obama became president and the Chinese were going to take over. Others were convinced aliens would wipe out all but a million people through a plague that would turn most of humanity into mindless, murdering zombies. Ellen gave that group credit for being almost right, minus the alien part.

They’d all know how the world would actually end in ten days.

Ten days.

“We gotta go about business as usual,” Ellen started. “We ain’t gonna have this much longer. You, me, Ash, the Roadhouse. Phone lines, internet, self-checkout at the supermarket. I know your daddy and me didn’t raise you in any sort of normal life, but this – disintegrating bodies in a giant tub – is as close to normal as we ever got. We gotta hold on to it while we can.”

Jo looked directly into her mother’s eyes from the other side of the corpse. She then reached toward the wall and grabbed a bone saw.

“Yeah,” Jo said. “We gotta hold on to normal for as long as we can.”

She crouched down and began working on the guy’s arm.

******

April 25, 2010 – Sioux Falls, SD

“Dean,” Castiel whispered as he forcefully moved Dean away from the window. “Stay down.”

Dean struggled, but the angel had more strength than his awkward body let on. He settled into a crouch underneath the window, Castiel next to him, just barely peeking out.

“Fifty-seven,” Cas said after a few moments. “All of them are infected with Croatoan virus. They’ve breached the barriers.”

Dean gulped. The hole in the fence. Jo had mentioned it the previous day during the demon attack. She didn’t tell her mom or Bobby. In heat of battle with the demon she managed to gank, she probably forgot. Then again, Dean had too.

“What do we do?” Dean asked hastily.

Castiel’s head darted from side to side. He then crouched down to Dean’s level.

“There are too many,” he stated.

There was another crash. Dean flinched and in the next second, Bobby was in the study.

“Stay down!” Bobby ordered as he himself hit the deck near the couch. He had a shot gun in his hands and a wife beater on his back. He looked like a regular ol’ redneck defending his house against a possum infestation.

“Croatoan infected infiltrated the Harvelle residence,” Cas said plainly, like he was giving a report on the weather.

“Son of a bitch,” Bobby grumbled under his breath. “How many?”

“Fifty-seven,” Dean answered. He wanted to seem like he was useful instead of just a cowering idiot in his boxers. 

Bobby shot a glance at Dean, then looked back at Castiel. “Ellen and Jo?”

Closing his eyes, Cas inhaled deeply. He exhaled with something that sounded like, “Alive.”

That was apparently all Bobby needed to hear as he cocked his gun and headed for the kitchen table. He grabbed another shot gun that sat unloaded there, and tossed it to Dean along with a box of bullets. A walkie appeared in Bobby’s right hand. Dean wasn’t sure where he had been keeping it.

“This is Bear to Big Mama,” Bobby said quickly. “Come in Big Mama. Over.”

The only response he got was static. He audibly gritted his teeth.

“Bear to Big Mama,” Bobby repeated himself, but more desperately. “Come in Big Mama.”

“Little busy here, Bear. Over,” Ellen’s voice came from the other end.

Bobby’s shoulders relaxed as he put the walkie closer to his mouth. “Big Mama, what is your situation? Over.”

Dean heard a pop sound come from the other end. It sounded like the walkie had blown out, but it soon returned to static.

“Fighting them off,” Ellen answered, followed by another pop sound. Something echoed outside.

Guns. Ellen and Jo were shooting at them.

Ignoring Cas’s direct orders, Dean stood slightly and glanced out the window. His eyes widened. He saw a few members of the mob back away from the shack, only to be replaced by a few more. It was like looking at a hydra. A massive, mosh pit of infected people hydra, but Dean felt the comparison was still apt. In the distance, under the moonlight, he saw more coming from the chain link fence around the compound.

Castiel yanked at Dean’s T-shirt and pulled him down. Dean landed hard on the wooden floor, directly on his tail bone. The wind was knocked out of him for a second before he composed himself.

“I’ll ask again,” Dean said, “what do we do? Throw a bomb at them or something?”

“ _A bomb?_ ” Bobby snapped. “You been watchin’ too many cartoons, boy. Throw a bomb in a yard full of cars and you set the whole damn place on fire.” He took a deep breath then exhaled in a sort of grunt. “They haven’t reached the house yet. Damn it, I didn’t think they’d attack this early on.”

“You’re telling me you knew this was gonna happen?” Dean demanded.

“It had to happen sometime,” Bobby admitted. “Just not two days in to the damn apocalypse.” He then returned his attention back to the walkie. “Status.”

“Now you know I ain’t one for cussin’,” Ellen’s voice returned, out of breath and obviously distracted. “But we’re fucked here, Bear. Best we switch to I-67.”

“I-67?” Dean asked, not sure if he should be directing the question to Cas or Bobby.

Whatever it was, it seemed to piss Bobby off. “That is a negative, Big Mama. We ain’t goin’ to I-67 this early in the game.”

“Robert Steven Singer,” Ellen said, “I ain’t takin’ this lightly. You got a better view of them than we do, and I gotta say, it don’t look too pretty. I-67 or I nail your balls to the wall.”

Bobby looked like he was about to break the walkie with his bare hands. His teeth ground together so loud, Dean was worried the man would saw them down to the gums. His eyes were on the window next to the four-seat table he was crouching by.

“Shit!” he spat and stood slightly, keeping his head low as he rushed to where Dean and Cas were.

“We’re goin’ ahead with I-67,” he said into the walkie. “You stay strong, Ellen. Over and out.”

“Over and out, Bobby,” Ellen’s voice said.

“What the fuck is I-67?” Dean demanded.

Bobby was silent. His face was so tight, it looked like his beard was trying to suffocate him. He reached up on a bookshelf and grabbed a blue trucker hat that had been sitting there. The beat up old thing made it on to his head, the brim low enough to create a dark shadow over the man’s eyes. Bobby was apparently the type of man who had a trucker hat for every occasion. Dean figured this was the hat for the shit hitting the fan.

“I take it you don’t have any qualms with this?” Bobby said to Castiel.

The angel stared at him for a moment before shaking his head.

“Well, I’m amending the plan,” Bobby said. “You and Dean execute I-67. I’m goin’ in there.”

Cas leaned forward. “No, Bobby, I cannot let you do that. You’ll die. I-67 must be executed by all able-bodied people.”

“Someone tell me what I-67 is before I get medieval!” Dean nearly said at normal volume.

Cas cocked his head to one side as Bobby cleared his throat. “I ain’t got time to explain this. Cas, execute I-67.”

He put a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean stared down at it, then turned to look at Bobby. He was looking Dean straight in the eye. The hand on his shoulder felt strange as he squeezed, shaking him a little before letting go. Bobby’s chin twitched.

“Good-bye, son,” was all Bobby said before he stood, nodded at Cas, and rushed for the door to the outside.

Dean sat on the hard floor, confused. Blood quickly returned to the area Bobby had squeezed. The man hardly knew him. He hardly knew Bobby. Yet the look he’d just given him, the hand on his shoulder, calling him “son”, it stabbed Dean right through the chest.

Once the door slammed behind Bobby, Cas grabbed Dean by the shirt collar. “We need to go.”

Dean found himself being dragged toward the basement, the very basement Dean had contemplated stumbling down in the dark to get a quick sip or twenty of alcohol. Cas practically threw him down the stairs until Dean felt his feet on solid ground. It was still pitch black, but Cas seemed to know where he was going.

“I-67, explain, now,” Dean barked, unnerved by the lack of light and the smell of mildew.

“In case of absolute dire circumstances,” Castiel’s voice rang in Dean’s ear and his grip continued to drag Dean across the basement floor, “if there is absolutely no means of salvaging life and/or property, the able-bodied execute I-67.”

“Your explanation leaves something to be desired here, Cas,” Dean grumbled.

He heard something creak, like an old, rusty hinge. Suddenly, he felt a hand on the back of his head, gently pressing him down and forcing him to duck. He continued to walk forward, blind, guided by Castiel as they entered what had to be a tunnel.

“We run,” Cas said as his hand left the back of Dean’s head.

Dean stood up straight and heard something click. Lights went on around him. Dean squinted, shielding his eyes with his left hand as he tried to adjust to the intensity of the bulbs overheard. He kept his head low. The floor was made of cement, smooth and gray like the old Turner & Winchester garage. It even had an oil stain a few inches from his feet.

Within a few moments, Dean mustered the willpower to raise his head to a normal level. He was still squinting, but he was able to see something black directly in front of him. He gasped.

A car.

It was a car.

A 1967 Chevrolet Impala Sport Sedan. Black.

In 1973, John Winchester had bought the Impala on a lot. He’d driven it to pick up his girlfriend, Mary, that very day. She’d smirked when she saw it. That’s the way she was. He kept the car, even after he and Mary got married and had kids. It wasn’t entirely safe or practical. It guzzled gas. The kids’ car seat didn’t fit in it right. Mary insisted the boys didn’t sit in it until they were big enough to get buckled in properly.

The car stayed even after Mary got a van to transport the boys to and from football practices and debate club meetings.  Replacement parts were getting expensive, but John found sellers on EBay. He was an excellent mechanic, and he kept her purring like the day she rolled off the assembly line.

It purred like that when it started in the police station parking lot on that icy December night.

Even the sound it made when it skid off the road and flipped was like a tigress defending her cubs.

The car was angry when it crashed. When it killed John Winchester.

“How?” Dean heard himself say, but couldn’t rightly remember his brain telling his mouth to let the word out.

Castiel moved away from the light switch on the wall and stood in front of Dean.

“After I delivered you safely to the hospital on the day you died,” he answered, “I intercepted the car before it was on its way to be totaled. I brought the Impala here to Bobby’s. I knew Bobby was an able mechanic and could bring it back to working condition.”

He reached into his trench coat pocket and produced a single key. Cas grabbed Dean’s elbow and brought the man’s hand forward. Dean’s hand was palm up as the key made contact. Cas gently closed Dean’s fingers around it.

“I-67,” Dean said to himself. “Impala 1967. We’re fleeing in my dad’s old car?”

Cas inhaled. “This isn’t just any car, Dean. This car is vital to who you are. This unnatural contraption made of steel is what you always ride in on to save people. To save humanity. To save your brother.”

On the left, there was a rusted, metal garage door. Castiel waved his hand and something that sounded like a chain clinked on the other side.

“I’ve unlocked the door,” Cas said. “When I open it, you will start driving. And you won’t stop driving until you are safely out of the way of the infected.”

“Wait,” Dean said, still numb. “I ain’t leaving here without you.”

Castiel smiled. “Of course. You wouldn’t survive a week alone out in the wilderness without me.”

Dean couldn’t help but smile.

He then turned and slid the key in the driver’s side door. It unlocked. He opened the door. It groaned slightly, like a beast getting woken up after a long nap. He sat down on the black leather seat, his bare foot touching the break. It seemed the seat was already adjusted for his height.

The key found its way into the ignition.

She purred.

The garage door flung open and the headlights shone on about twenty people standing directly outside. They were facing the open door and started milling in, moaning and spitting, reaching out to grab at the air. Their mouths were covered in blood. Many of them had ripped clothes.

Castiel zipped faster than Dean had ever seen any man run. He threw himself through the passenger door and was seated next to Dean within seconds.

Dean slammed his foot on the gas. The car jerked forward and he ploughed through the onslaught. The infected were pushed out of the way, a couple of them falling on to the hood. Dean floored it and the car accelerated, sending those on the hood flying.

They were in the back of the lot somewhere, on the opposite side of the house from where the Harvelle’s shack was. Dean looked around and tried to see if he could spot Bobby, Ellen, Jo, or Ash, but he saw no one but the people trying to rip him to shreds.

“Drive through the fence,” Castiel ordered.

Dean let up on the gas a bit. The Impala needed to be coaxed into crashing through a fence. It would scratch her paint and she wouldn’t like that.

Dean tapped at the stick shift. He’d seen Dad do it dozens of times when the old man was feeling cocky and wanted to show off just how fast his baby could go.

He then slammed on the accelerator. The Impala did not fail him. They were through the fence, a piece of it trailing behind them for a few seconds before flying off.

They made it.

Dean glanced at Castiel with a cocky smile. Cas turned his head and smiled back. A sad, distant smile.

Dean’s expression dropped. He stared straight in front as he pulled on to a road.

Dean drove in silence.


	32. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, Humanity - Lucifer

January 1, 2015 – Lawrence, KS

Lucifer grinned at the painting in front of him. Two nudes, a snake between them, the woman holding an apple to the man with her right hand, a second apple in her left behind her back. The man clutched his chest as if hesitating. It was all a farce. He wasn’t hesitating. He wanted to indulge.

“Are you the devil?” Marshall asked him.

The man was standing behind him, clutching the lining of his winter coat. His heart was beating unusually fast. With his current lifestyle and diet, the man had about six years to live, the last of which would be extremely painful as he slowly lost the use of his liver. Decades of drinking would do that to a human.

“Since you asked,” Lucifer said, turning around. “Yes, I am. Pleased to meet you.”

Marshall gulped and cowered, yet kept his eyes fixed on the figure in front of him. The figure of a tall man with dark brown hair.

“Do not fear me, Marshall,” Lucifer said reassuringly. His vessel had a naturally sympathetic face, despite the size of the body. Some might even call it handsome, though Lucifer believed all human beings looked essentially the same. Ugly and retched.

Marshall glanced around the room. They were in a hospital in the office that once belonged to the Dean of Medicine. It still had some family photos hanging on the wall next to a Johns Hopkins degree.

“You caused… You made all the people, you know,” Marshall stammered.

Lucifer let a sigh escape. “I had no other choice. Father gave humanity the curse of insatiable lust. They procreated too readily. Their numbers far exceeded my capacity to destroy. They had to be terminated, and plague was always the preferred method.”

Turning back to the painting, Lucifer continued, “It was a glorious battle though, four and a half years ago, wasn’t it?”

Marshall was confused. Lucifer could feel his brain trying to work it out.

“Excuse me?” he said. So polite.

“The battle between my superior forces and heaven’s army,” the devil clarified. “So many noble deaths on both sides. I weep for our fallen brothers and sisters. Let us be thankful that that was the final battle.”

Marshall’s eyebrows furrowed, but he said nothing.

“I am most thankful, however,” Lucifer said, “that my older brother was not martyred. While it was destined that one of us perish, we both survived. True, one of us is not whole. One of us is corrupted. His memories wiped and replaced with new ones. Human ones. Not even the same memories as his vessel.”

He turned back around, his eyes glowing blue. Marshall took a few steps back until he hit a bookshelf against the wall. A book fell behind him on to the floor.

“I’m thankful to Our Father,” Lucifer went on, slowly approaching Marshall. “He spared my defeated brother. Father is benevolent and kind.”

Marshall glanced around the room looking for an escape.

“Won’t you join me in thanking Our Father?” Lucifer said with a smile. “Won’t you join me, Michael?”

The body of John Winchester blinked. His eyes turned bright blue.

******

_TO BE CONTINUED_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it to the end! Or rather, you made it to the end of Part 1 of Like Clockwork. 
> 
> Yes, there will be a Part 2. That is a promise I intend to keep regardless of how many people actually made it this far. I'm working on it as we speak (yes, we're speaking; I'm in your room right now; hello), with the overarching themes and plot already planned out, so this will get done. 
> 
> I started writing this as a means of getting out certain frustrations I've had with Supernatural and end-of-the-world scenarios and plot lines in general, and I'm of the mindset that if you're frustrated with something, you go in and change it. So that's what I did. Or tried to do. I'm not sure exactly how successful this was.
> 
> On that note, if anyone has any suggestions, criticisms, notes, or just plain typos they'd like to point out, please feel free to comment. I'm completely open to making this as successful a piece of apocalypse fiction as I can. 
> 
> Thank you for making it this far, and stick around for Part 2!


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